Outracing the Flames RPG

[Nogrod]

A chilling cry filled the air, coming from all around them. It was followed by the regrettably familiar hissing noise that approached from somewhere up above; growing louder, slowly at first, but gaining both speed and volume, as it got nearer. Sythric went to grasp his shield quite automatically. That noise was almost instinctively tied to that action. The sky was pretty dark already, and made the approaching missiles practically invisible. As the sound of the arrows suddenly grew very violent, he managed to lift the shield to cover his body from the downpouring, lethal rain of arrows. Just before the shield cut his field of vision, he saw them coming towards them, from all over around. He heard himself shouting for “Cover!”, but that yell was overpowered by the ear-breaking whine of the incoming arrows. He heard someone yelling, but didn’t know, who it was.

Now the easterlings were clearly seen, coming on them from all the directions. Fifteen?... more, less?... Maybe two shots more. He had estimeted the distance between them. No more time to lose, he thought. The next pack is in any moment.

“Scatter around! Get away from each other!”, he shouted. “There’s not so many of them at the time, look for them! They will come from lower next time!” Byt the time he had gotten to that, the next pack of arrows was approaching. Sythric got eye on one that was coming quite straightly towards him. He lifted his shield, and hoped for the best. The impact never came, but the sound of the arrow, passing less than a yard to the left from him almost deafened his ear for a moment.

“One more round coming! After it, make a circle!”, Sythric yelled amidst the chaos and tumult of the horses. He heard, that someone else had also shouted something, but couldn’t make the message out. Suddenly he saw Brand some ten yards away from him, and called him. “Brand!... Brand! Those one’s coming down on us! From the ridge! Would you ride with me against them, to take the worst blow? We will have to slow those down!” If Brand answered, Sythric didn’t hear it, for the easterling cry was on the air again, louder as before – and the thunder of their horses coming towards them with almost full speed sounded frightful indeed. And there was the third pack of arrows, coming almost horizontally now, as they were shot only from under hundred yards away.

The shriek of an oncoming arrow was one of the most frightful noises he knew of. So haphazard, so random was the possibility of getting hit, or avoiding it. As a true rider, Sythric thought of them as kind of unfair weapons. You didn’t have to prove your qualities fighting eye to eye, just let your lethal missile do it for you from secure distance. And you gave your opponent just the hope, that luck would be at your side. No arrow flew even near Sythric this time.

The sound of easterlings changing weapons some fifty yards away, was just as chilling as the noise of the approaching arrows. The soft ringing of the almost simultaneos unsheating of swords from all around them was quite unnerving. Sythric picked his spear and yelled as loud as he could: “In to a circle, in to a circle!” While shouting, he was already making Thydrë to start uphill. He had no time to look for Brand, as he saw the easterlings coming towards, too close already. He spurred Thydrë to make all the speed she could with that short distance, rushing straight towards the avalanche that was rolling down the hill on upon them.

[Folwren]

The light was dim when the attack broke out upon them. Athwen couldn’t tell which direction the arrows came from - probably because they were completely surrounded - nor where to look for the men who uttered such horrible cries. Parith’s head went up and his nostrils flared at the sound and without warning he reared and screamed. Athwen clutched his mane with one hand, and with the other, pulled on one rein. His head came around and his dropped back to his forefeet, spinning about and half cantering downhill, before he turned again and tried to bolt back up.

Out of the corner of her eyes, Athwen saw the figures of horsemen start up the hill after her. She couldn’t count them, there were too many things going on. An arrow passed her head and she heard the whine of wind behind its feathers as it flew by her ear. Then another one grazed her arm and she clenched her teeth at the sudden, sharp pain. Hardly a moment was given her to glance down, and barely had she realized that the blood she saw was from her, that a new worry caused her to forget it.

She had reached the company again, and they were facing around to meet their assailants. Athwen tried to urge Parith forward between two of them, she was weaponless and would be of no use, but he balked, and pawed, and then tried to rear again. Athwen wanted to shriek in frustration and fear, but no sound or voice came to her throat. Her mind was numb and frozen in terror.

And then the Easterlings reached them. The sound of clashing steal invaded upon her ears. She cowered and shrank where she sat upon her trembling horse. But then a hand touched her, reaching across a gap between her and another horse, it closed on her hair, the long, damp locks, close to the scalp. It sent a spark of shattering pain through her head. Her head dropped back, her mouth opened - it was a most vulnerable position, and suddenly she knew it.

She found control of herself at that instant, and when she did, she also gained control of her horse. She grasped the reins and pulled, and he backed obediently, then she rocked forward, bowing over the saddle horn. The grip on her hair didn’t give an inch, and now he yanked, hard, and he very nearly succeeded in his purpose in pulling her from her horse. Athwen screamed involuntarily, and once more her head went back, and her body slipped towards him. She clutched at Parith’s mane.

An unexplainable fierceness flowed through her body. Her eyes darted towards her assailant. She spotted his curved dagger in his belt and she let go of Parith with one hand to reach it. Her fingers closed on the hilt, but before she could draw it out, her hair was released, her hand struck away and then another stunning blow was added to her head. Her senses reeled, but she managed to right herself on the saddle and pull away from the enemy.

But there was another Easterlings, and another, and another, and Athwen suddenly doubted that any one of them would get out alive.

[Nogrod]

It seemed, that four easterlings were coming down the hill. Two of them were too far right for him to have any chances of engaging, but the two nearest to him were riding down on a path he could have chances to intervene. He spurred Thydrë even more, calling her to do her utmost. As the easterlings noted him coming towards them, they very soon changed the angle of their approach. The first started changing his course a bit left, to pass him from that side. The other one coming a bit behind, continued almost to the same direction he was already heading, but making his trail a bit nearer to Sythrics path on the right side. The one coming towards his left side would clearly miss any attack on the party. That was good news. The bad news were, that the one coming behind, could still manouver himself on the others, if the first one would engage him successfully. And the first one was posing a threat to his life, to begin with – the second would come just seconds after that, if the first would miss it... A kingdom for just five able riders! These guys know their trade..., Sythric cursed himself.

Sythric levelled his spear and rushed forwards, pointing the tip of it towards the easterling coming over him from the left. Just before the impact he suddenly pulled the reins back and right, with all the power his left hand could make. Thydrë knew, what was meant, and made a sudden leap rightwards. Sythric ducked simultaneously, and the easterling’s sword cut only air. It would take some moments, before that man could manage to turn around and come back. Just time enough! Before the other easterling could come to grips with this new situation, he saw the spearhead coming towards him. He tried to pull the reins to avoid the collision, but that was too late already. Sythric’s spear pierced through his thin leather-breastplate, just under his armpit, and jerked him off the saddle.

“For Rohan!”, he heard himself bellowing, as he struggled the spear back. The easterling was not dead, but he wouldn’t stand for long, as blood was spurting all over from his trembling body. Turning hastily to see the overall situation, he saw that the easterling he had strayed just a moment ago, was making a turn some twenty yards from him. The battle raged all over him. One easterling was rushing up the hill towards him with speed. He seemed more adorned than the others, and then there was also that something, you just can't point so easily... something like stature. It shined from him yards away.

[Arry]

As the Easterlings came at them, Brand was torn. His gaze flicked to where Meghan rode. He could see her fumbling to get her bow ready as the foe came nearer. His sight of her was lost in less than the wink of an eye as the battle rolled down the hill.

He heard Sythric calling his name . . . something about the enemy coming down from the ridge. And would he ride with him . . .

Again the sounds and crush of battle pressed in on him. Brand kicked against Lady’s side urging her after Sythric. He had no lance as did the older man, And on horse, his short sword was not that effective. Instead he grasped his long stout oaken cudgel firmly in his hand and rode hard against the advancing men.

Lady moved upon the Easterlings as she would have against the wolves that preyed on Brand’s flocks. She evaded the sharp sting of their blades when she could and when that simply was not possible she raised up and struck at them with her hooves.

Three of the foe rushed in to surround Lady and Brand as the oak cudgel sprayed one of their fellow’s brains onto the muddy ground. Two of them slashed at Lady’s hindquarters while the one in front wielded his lance against Brand. Lady’s back hooves flew out behind her, catching one of her attackers hard in the chest, knocking him away from her. The other one’s blade connected with her flank, gouging a long slash along her side. She wheeled and struck out at him with her front hooves.

As Lady made her abrupt turn, the third Easterling thrust his lance at Brand, unseating him. Brand tried desperately to regain his balance, to no effect. He fell from his horse, hitting his left shoulder hard on the ground. His cudgel flew from his grip. Brand scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword. From the corner of his eye he could see Lady still standing, her two attackers now downed. Approaching him was the Easterling with the lance. His eyes were hard on Brand as he put down the spear and drew his own blade . . .

[Farael]

It seemed the day was finally drawing to an end, when an arrow flew across the path of the riders. It was soon followed by another, and another. Osmod’s horse had seen many a fight with wolves, but he had never seen those missiles coming straight at him. He reared, almost throwing Osmod off his mount and kicked the empty air behind him. It took Osmod a moment to realize they were under attack and another moment to bring his horse under control. By the time he was ready, the Easterlings closing in on them and there was no time for him to grab his bow and arrows. They were secured to the back of his saddle but might as well have been left in Bregoware.

Then, he heard a blood-chilling scream. The leader had indicated a charge and the Easterlings were moving in for the kill. Osmod drew his sword and straightened his back, remembering what his grand father had told him.

”Never let them see your fear, lad. A fearless enemy is the most feared enemy of them all.”

The group was in disarray. Sythric was calling out to Brand and then charging by himself, a small clump of riders still held together and Osmod found himself caught slightly separated from the rest. He heard another scream, yet this time a different one. Turning on the saddle, he saw one of those wretched men cheering as he grabbed one of the girls by her hair. It was Athwen.

Blood boiled in Osmod’s veins and he decided to charge back at them. Letting out what he hoped would amount to a battle cry, Osmod spurred his horse towards the riders that surrounded Athwen. Two of them wheeled and faced Osmod, while the third still struggled with the girl. Osmod had no time to smile, but the girl seemed to be putting more of a fight than what the brutes had thought of. Charging blindly towards the Easterlings, Osmod lunged with his sword at one of them yet his attack was repelled by a shield. Osmod’s momentum had him galloping by the Easterling’s side and he stuck out his elbow, hitting the surprised rider on the head and throwing him off his horse. It was not quite the normal Rohan fighting techniques, but it would have to do. He wheeled his horse around where Athwen was struggling bravely against the Easterling, but he miscalculated the angle and found himself too far to help her. There was still another enemy on his horse and he was coming in too fast for Osmod to change his course. The Easterling levelled his lance for a kill but Osmod was able to duck out of the way at the last second. The lance’s point found the back of his arm but it barely scratched his skin. A lunge of his sword later, Osmod had killed a man for the first time.

Athwen had struggled free and Osmod wheeled again and charged at the Easterling by her side. The man simply moved away, letting Osmod by Athwen’s side. It was small consolation and there was no time to stop and talk, the battle ravaged on around them and he could only pray his luck would not abandon him now that his anger was subsiding. He felt a cold pang of fear and tried to press it back, knowing that it was not the time for him to cower and run away.

[Undómë]

Rædwald nodded at Brand to go with Sythric. His lance was already loosed from its holder and he urged Lys forward. He could see the others as he passed along, some engaged in fighting singly, but a number in little groups of two or so, holding off their attackers. He harried the Easterlings in his path, killing two of them as he made his way toward Meghan.

He wished he might have brought the armor for Lys that he’d had in his younger days as several of the Easterlings managed to wound her as the two pushed onward. The horse, however, had not slowed down or shown the least halting in her gait from the cuts, which made him assume they were only superficial.

There were two Easterlings attacking Meghan. One of her arrows had hit the nearest one’s cheek, near the eye, causing him to fall back with a scream. The other plunged toward her with his blade, and she fired another arrow at him, missing. He swung at her, using the flat of his blade. His intention was to knock her from her horse and take her captive.

The force of the blow nearly knocked her from her seat, but she rallied as he rushed in to grab her and kicked him in the neck with her boot. He reeled back; then, catching his breath lunged at her again . . . this time only to meet the sharp tip of Rædwald’s lance as it pierced him in the side, delivering a mortal blow.

[Nogrod]

That man must be their leader! Now you can show them, who the Rohanians are! Sythric thought to himself. It seemed, that he hadn't particularly noticed Sythric yet. That's just the better... Surprise, speed, brutal strength, and then some range to add... Sythric smiled thinly, lowering his spear, staring at the easterling leader approaching him, armed only with a sword.

As he was readying himself to encounter the easterling, the voice of hooves passing somewhere near behind him got him instinctively to check his back. Brand was standing on the ground, some twenty yards behind him, just a short sword in his hand. He was facing an easterling, that was coming on him, at full gallop, a full-sized blade ready to swing. The brutal strenght and range on the one side there too... He’s already dead! “Brand!!!”

Before he even realized it himself, he had turned his body somewhat sideways – Thydrë accompanied his move by taking two steps back, and turning a bit – and thrown the heavy spear with all his strenght. He missed the easterling. A heavy rider spear was no javelin, and there had been no time to aim. But the spear had hit. It had hit the easterling’s horse, penetrating deep into its side. The horse whinnyed in pain and tumbled down to its knees from full gallop, sending its rider off the saddle, flying straight towards Brand.

At the same time, as Sythric saw the easterling tumble on Brand, he sensed the presence of the enemy, just too near now. He had neither time, nor space, to draw his sword, as the oncoming Calimehtar was already about to swing his – and within range, with the strength on his side now. Sythric could see the movement from the corner of his eye. Desperately he grasped his shield, and swung it towards the oncoming blow, trying to parry the hit that was already falling.

[Folwren]

Athwen was there when Sythric's horse came to a stop by the other horses, grouping miserable and riderless in the falling dusk. She took Thydrë's rein and the mare came to a halt. But Athwen could do nothing with Sythric. The man was sensless, barely keeping his seat, hunched over his horse's neck. His wounded side was towards Athwen and she was loath to touch him, even if she could have done any good doing so.

'Osmod or Leod! Come quick, I need help!' Osmod and Leod were both bending over Vaenosa, and they both looked up when Athwen called. Osmod rose to his feet with a quick word to Leod which Athwen didn't hear and then came to her. 'Get him down. He's badly wounded and he's not awake at all.' Osmod reached up and gently pulled Sythric towards him. Athwen stood nervously by, waiting to see if there would be any way she could help.

There was none as Osmod lifted Sythric to the ground, using his tall, powerful frame to help him. He knelt beside him and began to unfasten the thick, leather guard to get at the wound that caused so much blood. Athwen bent towards him and whispered,

'Osmod, what should I do?'

'Can you stand the sight of blood?' Osmod asked. Athwen shuddered, and somehow the young man percieved it. 'Never mind, Athwen,' he said gently. 'Take care of the horses. Incana and Leod will help me and here comes Eostre.' He nodded towards the hill top above them. 'At least, she may not be coming directly here, but she's still in her saddle and apparently unwounded.'

'I'll make sure all the horses are here,' Athwen said, stepping away. He looked at her over his shoulder and nodded and she immediately turned away.

She went to the horses and silently counted and named all of them. As far as she could tell, they were all there. . .all of them who's riders had been unhorsed. Except Brand's. She turned about and looked for Lady, and in a moment, she caught sight of her atop the hill. Most of them stood in a tight group, but some (Nay was one of them, she noticed in the back of her mind) stood farther away. She went out to bring them in, and when that was done, she would look to their wounds. It would nothing so bad as tending people, she thought, as she started out to fetch the stray ones.

[Arry]

Lady’s eyes were wide as she watched the man and woman leverage Brand onto her back. Could she talk, she would have shouted ‘Hurry, hurry!’ to them. There were still a number of the foe on the hilltop, and she was nervous lest they set upon Brand again.

Brand could hear people talking, but found he had no strength to join in, nor could he help himself up from the ground. Two sets of hands strong-armed him up to the horse’s back. Pain shot through him as his shoulder was jounced in the effort. He found himself set in tightly between two bodies; the one in back lending him the support to stay on the horse.

Lady raced down the hill and away from danger as fast as her legs would carry her. The woman had the reins and guided her toward the group of companions with whom Brand had been traveling. Lady resigned herself to obey, though were it solely up to her she would have run with Brand all the way back to the safety of their lands. She stood still enough as the woman held her by the bridle and talked softly to her. She could see arms reaching up to help Brand down from her back. And she nickered softly to him some assurance that she was there. Then some one came and led her away to where the other horses were gathered.

Brand was barely aware as he was laid on the ground. His shoulder wound had opened up once again and was bleeding. He could hear some one giving directions and someone asking him questions. But the voice was so faint and he could not make out the words.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Calimehtar reeled under the force of the blow. Sythric's dagger had caught him in the fleshy part of his upper right arm. Thankfully, the blade had not penetrated to the bone below, but the wound was bleeding profusely. More importantly, he had lost too many men to continue fighting.

Calimehtar gave the signal to retreat, the sign that his men should gather at the base of the hill on the east side. He scrambled down to the designated spot that they had agreed on ahead of time, but was dismayed to find that only three of his men had survived the onslaught. The results were even worse than he had thought. How could he have so misjudged the Rohirrim? The women had fought like banshees and the young men had made up in determination what they lacked in experience.

Calimehtar cursed under his breath. He would never make such a mistake again. Next time, he would come upon his enemy in the dead of night when he would have a clear advantage. It would not look good to have lost so many soldiers to such a tiny band. That could be fixed, he reasoned, by altering the circumstances ever so slightly. He would tell the Lord of Mordor that the men of Rohan had grossly outnumbered them (there would be no mention of women) and that they were lucky to come out alive. That should at least keep his own neck intact. One of the men tied a bandage around his lord's arm to staunch the flow of blood, and the small party set out in the woods, heading east to find a place to camp.

[Folwren]

Osmod took command as the group drew closer together and they were counted up. Raedwald was dead, but he was the only one they had lost. Sythric was very badly wounded, and Brand had lost a deal of blood from his shoulder. Vaenosa, too, was wounded, though Leod deemed her cuts not so dangerous or life threatening as the two men's.

Sizing the situation up as quickly as possible, Osmod called Athwen and Meghan to him. 'Take your horses, and also take Rædwald's horse, up to the top of the hill where we intended to stop and make camp for the night before we were attacked. There, gather wood and start a fire. Do what you can to prepare camp. While you do that, we'll have to bandage wounds as best we can in order to move them up there.'

'But won't they - mightn't they still come back?' Athwen asked. She looked frightened from her very core out as the asked the question.

'They won't come back after having most of their men killed,' Osmod replied.

'We'll go,' Meghan said. She laid her hand on Athwen's arm and gently led her away towards the horses. They mounted and Osmod handed Meghan the reins of Rædwald's horse. They rode up to the crest of the hill where, beneath the oaks, near complete blackness met them. Athwen shuddered as she entered the shadow and she felt terrified of the darkness.

'Meghan?' she called softly, feeling suddenly a fear of being alone. Meghan must have heard the tremble in her voice - who couldn't have? She was right by Athwen's side and she reached out towards her, her hand touching Athwen's shoulder.

'I'm here. It's not necessary to go farther. Let's make the fire here.'

The two of them set to work finding wood. Their eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness and they found it was not quite so balck as it had first seemed. They continued searching for and gathering the dryest wood they could find until Meghan deemed it enough. Then, as Athwen cleared a place for it and set the wood in order, Meghan searched about in the saddle bags for a tinder box with which to set the flame.

A few minutes later they had a bright little blaze going. It banished the shadows back farther and farther as Athwen carefully added the damp wood. She was just about to ask Meghan how long she thought the others would be when she heard the sound of approaching horses entering the trees. The girls looked up to see Incana riding into the firelight, a horse in tow. Vaenosa was on the second horse, half concious.

Meghan and Incana helped her dismount and led her towards the fire as Athwen sat and watched rather uselessly. Before they had Vaenosa seated, the others began to arrive, and in little time at all. everyone was off their horses, the wounded were laid near the fire, and while they were being tended to by Leod and a couple helpers, Athwen and Dorran prepared dinner while Osmod and Fion made the last few arrangements for the horses.

[Undómë]

The fire Athwen and she had built was burning brightly. A number of the companions were busy at the task of getting the camp ready for the night. Meghan watched as Leod made the rounds of the injured, attending to those who needed him and giving direction to others for their care. Save for the aches and pains of being knocked about and dragged off, her own wounds were minor. Her left hand strayed up to touch the scabbed over cut along her neck and the faint beginnings of a spiral the foul Easterling had traced with his knife.

Someone had made willowbark tea and had given her a small cup to take care of the fierce headache pounding behind her eyes. Meghan closed her eyes and rested her head back on the tree she was sitting against.

‘Here!’ Leod directed two of those still on their feet to put one of the wounded near her. ‘I’ve just put a compress of moss and bound it on his shoulder with some strips of cloth. Just put your hand firmly on it, and we’ll keep it from bleeding. Oh, and I’ve given him some wine; so, don’t be surprised if he simply sleeps through your company.’

It was Brand. His face was pale and cool, though a thin film of sweat lay on his brow. She placed her hand as Leod had directed and sat quietly for a while watching the slow even rise and fall of it as he breathed. He moaned a little, eyes closed, and moved restlessly.

‘Quiet, you great ninny! Be still!’ she said without thinking. It was a phrase she often used when tending some injury to her goats. ‘Just sleep and let yourself heal.’ She leaned back against the tree, making herself comfortable. ‘Just rest, sheepman, the lambs are safe from the wolves. Lady is well, and grazing nearby. Leod and the others are getting everyone taken care of who was wounded. The Easterlings have gone. She bent low and whispered near to his ear. ‘Others are tending the little flock of Bregoware and Wulfham for now. It’s all in good hands.’

The willowbark tea had eased her headache somewhat and eased the pain in her muscles and bones, too. Brand had finally quieted again. A sudden thought made her laugh, of how they had teased each other on their choice of flocks. He had managed to make some points on the positive merits of sheep and as she recalled, she had not the time to make her argument.

She tapped her fingers on his bandage and gave his sleeping form an impish grin. ‘You know,’ she began, her voice taking on an authoritative tone. ‘This is probably a very good time for you to just relax and listen carefully as I tell you about how much better it is to raise goats than sheep. And lucky for you, I have many stories to illustrate my points.’ Meghan crossed her legs in front of her and settled into her monologue.

‘I was just a wee girl of five when my father gave me my first kid to raise. She was a lovely little brown-eyed doe, as pretty as you can imagine, and smart as a whip, too . . .’

[Tevildo]

Except for a few bumps and bruises, Dorran had come out of the fighting in amazingly good shape. Throwing together a simple stew to feed the others, he had then offered to help Osmod and Fion care for the horses. He missed his familiar routine in the stables at Wulfham. In the midst of all this fighting and dying, the horses seemed to Dorran to be his most enduring connection to a normal life. In a real sense, the animals were the most important members of their band. Without their swift legs, the group would never reach Edoras on time, especially now that their journey had been delayed. Dorran spent some time rubbing the animals down, tending to their minor scrapes and cuts, and lugging up an ample supply of dried grass from the far side of the hill so there would be enough for all of them to eat.

"I'll stay on guard tonight," he had volunteered to the others. "Perhaps this band won't be back, but how do we know for sure? And there could be other things in these woods...."

What Dorran could not admit to himself is that he simply did not want to lay in bed and try to sleep. His anger in battle, the way he had tried to hack away at the Easterling's prone corpse, had left him feeling distinctly uneasy.

It was Leod who came over and spoke with Dorran, as if guessing the reason for the young man's offer. "I don't think there's going to be any armed attacked, but I do need someone to sit with Sythric, and try to get him to take a bit of this brew. In a few hours I am hoping that he'll start coming to. I'll take the first shift. Try and rest as soon as dinner is over. I'll wake you a few hours after that when the moon is high in the sky. Sometimes, after a battle, the best medicine a man can have is to sit with a wounded comrade and help him through the night. If you see Sythric's breathing flag, or if he falls into a deep unmoving sleep, you must wake me immediately. Other than that just sit with him. You might even want to talk a bit and cool his head with a wet rag. Whether he hears what you're saying or not, part of his mind will know you're there and that's a relief."

"Can you do that for me?" Leod prodded in a testy voice.

"Yes, only....."

Only what?" the healer snapped back.

"I'm not sure I trust myself. Not anymore. Not after what happened on that hill. You probably didn't see, but...."

"I saw. You did what you had to do to try and protect Meghan. That's what's important. The rest was done in the heat of the battle."

"But then I'm no better than them. I'm just a savage hacking away at a dead body. I hate them, Leod. I really do. I don't want to turn into them but that's what all this fighting seems to do."

"It's a problem, lad. I can't deny it. We have to fight because there's no choice. But the fighting can do strange things to people. Just look at what happened to Athwen. Anyways, you're not a monstor because anger got the better of you for a few seconds in battle. If you were a monstor, you wouldn't be sitting here now and agonizing over what you did. Go on. Get some sleep, and I promise to wake you later to take the watch....."

[Nogrod]

Tevildo's post


Immediately after eating, Dorran had pulled out his bedroll and gone off to the far side of camp to try and get a few hours of sleep as the healer had suggested. He had expected to lie on the ground with eyes wide open as disturbing images from the day's events flitted through his mind. What actually happened was different. One moment the young man was lying quietly and watching the others from a distance, some of whom were talking, others eating, while still others rested or slept. The next moment he was sound asleep, remembering and seeing nothing till several hours later when he was woken by Leod.

Dorran went over and sat down next to Sythric just as the healer had suggested. He bathed the injured man's head with a cool rag and kept a close eye on his chest and face to make sure he was breathing normally. Leod had said that Sythric might begin to come to and that Dorran should feed him a special potion if that happened. But so far there were no signs of that.

Dorran was so occupied with his duties that he thankfully forgot to think about the earlier battle or even his own killing of the Easterling. Sythric had been sleeping comfortably for some time when Dorran noticed that the wounded man was beginning to show some signs of movement. His eyelids were still closed, but his hands and legs changed position, and he even tried to roll over once. Surely this must be what Leod had expected, Dorran mused happily, thinking that Sythric would soon recover. The young man ran over to the coals and looked at the pot brewing there. The medicine seemed a bit thick to drink so Dorran added some water to it and then poured some into a flagon.

Dorran bent over to smell the concoction, and a sharp fishy odor assailed his nose. Curious to see what the brew tasted like, he popped a finger inside the flagon and then brought it to his lips to lick. That was his first mistake. The stuff tasted utterly awful. Ugh! He was glad he did not have to drink that horrible liquid. He felt a little guilty trying to feed it to Sythric, but if this was what was needed for him to get well, the poor patient would just have to suffer! After all, Leod was a healer and he must know what he was doing.

He tried to pour the potion carefully to Sythric's mouth. At that instant, Sythric's eyes opened, he gave a deep groan, and struggled to try and sit up. Dorran reached over and mumbled, "You'll have to drink this. Leod says so if you want to get well".
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Nogrod's post


Sythric came out from the void gradually, passing from nowhere to a light sleep. There were vivid images in his mind now. He was wrestling on the ground with an orc on top of him. This was years and years ago, but still more clear as the present. He had his knife in his right hand, trying to make for the throat of the orc – but his hand was firmly gripped from the wrist by the orc. His left hand had the same grip over the orc’s other hand – armed with a dagger, trying to make it’s way to his throat as well. That match of wills and brutal power seemed to go on forever. He sensed the terrible smell of the panting breath just to his nose. The orc was sweating those stinking drops that were raining down all over his face. It was the foulest smell he had ever encountered.

Eventually he had managed to kick the orc off-balance – forcing it to make a balancing move- and freeing his right hand. He had stabbed the orc to its chest, simultaneously pulling the blade upwards backhanded. The orc had let a dull howl, and he felt the thick and warm orc-blood spraying all over his face, some of it entering his wide open mouth.

He spitted the thick and warm liquid out from his mouth, all his muscles tense, as he dashed to a sitting position, ready to fight for his life. At the moment, he felt the agonizing pain in his left side. Then came the soothing voice of Dorran – a bit shaken voice it was, as he had suddenly acted so violently – but it was familiar enough to make Sythric calm down. "You'll have to drink this. Leod says so if you want to get well,". Pictures of the evening rushed through his mind now: the rain of arrows, the easterling chieftain hitting him, Vaenosa being run after by an easterling, Dorran and Meghan clinging to each other in front of the easterling lord... He was coming back to the world here and now.

He drank Leod’s potion – as foul as it tasted – but then again, few really efficient medicines tasted good. Dorran had took hold of his shoulder, assisting him with the flagon with his other hand. He took Dorran by the shoulder with his right hand, and quietly managed to ask, what had happen. Dorran told him his version of the battle, and Sythric listened to it passively, having no energy to actively to engage in the discussion – or being able to understand more than half of it. But then one thing sprang to his mind. Raedwald was dead! He started crying violently – increasing the pain on his side. Dorran tried to calm him, but it was of no avail. Sythric bursted to tears and was shaking all over. Finally he managed to balance himself to quietly whisper to Dorran: “Raedwald... We must bury him... With all the honours we can give him.” Dorran took a firm hold of Sythric, taking him in his arms, and letting the man cry to his shoulder.

Finally Sythric calmed down a bit, and asked, whether Leod had came up with some even fouler potions for him to drink. As Dorran denied it, he smiled weakly. “All that doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Believe me with this. I don’t know what happened up on the hilltop before I arrived – or sometimes after that – but when I had a grasp of the situation, I could see, that you had been brave and courageous! You should be proud of yourself, Dorran. You are a good man: seeing an easterling soldier – or lord – the first time, is frightful, but you had heart enough to fight!”

Sythric was slowly leaning backwards to his resting position. “You’re a good lad, Dorran – a good man you are...”, he said, and then falled back to the bliss of the unconscious.

[Arry]

The low, breathy sound of a flute wove in and out among the words. Soft words, they were that brought up familiar images. Lady and he and Patch, his hound . . . under a night sky; the full moon hanging fat and ripe against the darkness and the stars. It was a fair sound that hung about the words . . . a silvery little ribbon of song . . .

Brand moved a bit, and wished he hadn’t. The pain in his shoulder flared up, less hot and sharp though, he thought, than it had been. His right hand crept up to his left chest, near the shoulder, touching gingerly the bulky bandaging there. The wound it seemed had not bled through.

One and then the other he opened his eyes and saw it was night, just as in his dreams. The fire burned steadily, and many of his companions were already bedding down for sleep. His companions . . . the voice had said something about them . . . that they were safe. No, Rædwald had died, he remembered that.

He struggled up, wanting to take tally of what was going on. Someone placed a firm hand against his chest and pushed him back to his pillow. There to his left sat someone wrapped in a blanket against the growing chill of night. In the effort of pushing him back down, the blanket fell away from the face. Meghan!

‘I thought never to see you again,’ he said, grabbing hold of her hand before she could move it away. He grinned, a gladsome light in his eyes at the sight of her. ‘That was you who was playing, wasn’t it’ He laughed a little. ‘And you speaking . . . funny, I thought I was dreaming about being out with the sheep, with Lady and my hound. But now as I recall they were your stories, weren’t they . . . you and those beastly goats of yours. You have had the advantage of me this time, m’lady. But be warned, I have years and years of stories to better yours and they are all of sheep . . . lovely animals . . .

He coughed and groaned as the sudden movement pained his chest. A cup was offered, his head lifted a bit, so that he might drink. Wine . . . with something in it . . . it slaked his thirst and he knew it soon would send him back to dreaming.

Brand gave her hand a squeeze as he felt the concoction take effect. ‘I promise. I won’t try to get up. Get some sleep yourself, Meghan. You can tell me all the stories you want to tomorrow. Lay down, lay down and rest a while.’

[Arry]

Farael's post

It was a long night for all of them. The wounded needed to be looked after and those who had not been gravely wounded had to help Leod. Osmod sported a bruised arm and a few minor cuts. The pain on his chest had gotten worse after the fight so after the heaviest workload had been done, Leod told Osmod to get some rest.

Yet it would be a restless night. The moans of the wounded in their sleep and the dull ache of his limbs was enough to keep his troubled mind alert. He had given up on them, on those left in the hill, and most of them had been gravely wounded. The questions kept sounding in his throbbing head yet the answers were not there. He felt as if he would never sleep again, so he decided to go stretch his legs.

He walked to the nearby trees as silently as he could. He told himself he didn’t want to rouse the lucky ones who could sleep, but deep inside he knew that he just wanted to be alone. By his bedroll laid one of his drawings, the figures interlaced and crossed so that very few could decipher its meaning. What scared Osmod the most is that he did not recall writing it, but what it depicted was so terrible he did not dare to let those thoughts into his mind. They were there anyway, lurking in the dark unconscious corners.

He thought about deserting them all once again. Taking his sword, bow and arrows and fighting his way to safety or, most likely, death. As he returned to the camp, the grim moods had not subsided and he sneaked towards his mount, who greeted him cheerfully. ”If you only knew my friend, what I am about to do, would you shed a tear for me? Will anyone cry my loss or will I pass, from light to shadow never to be remembered again?”

A cold wind blew from the north, moaning a lamentation for the war. It was then that Osmod heard a voice calling his name. Yet it sounded far, far away and at the same time close, as if inside Osmod’s own mind. He knew the voice and he understood the message even if no more words had been spoken. Walking back to his bedroll, he erased the grim picture and drew a new one with his finger on the dirt. It was simple, composed by just three runes and a name. The meaning comforted Osmod all the same. To Edoras, for Rædwald. Finally, a sudden quietness took over his soul and he slept. He would not wake until the following morning.

[Folwren]

The night's blackness pressed in on Athwen like an oppressive storm as she lay huddled in blankets close to the fire. She could not shut her eyes, for each time she did, the image of the dagger sinking into the Easterling's side came back as vivid as when it happened. Or, which was even worse, she would see the flaming houses as she had from the top of the ridge where she and her horse had first seen the devistation of their home.

But finally she was able to slip into an uneasy sleep where she was not conscious of having closed her eyes. The sounds of the night mingled in together until they were all one with silence and the flickering orange and red light of fire darkened unto blackness and she slept.

The night was not half through when her mind awoke and once more brought back the horrible images. She tossed and turned where she lay, the dreams torturing her mind, until suddenly she started up, half awake, half delerious with sleep and nightmare, uttering a piercing cry breaking the stillness.

'Ean!' she called, her voice broken, high, and shrill. 'Eanlaen, come back!' Her voice rose to nearly a scream and she was crying. Athwen struggled wildly to free herself of tangled blankets and skirt and she tried to get to her feet, blinded by unreality and tears, a heavy fog seemed to rise around everything. She wanted to search, to look again. . .she had seen so clearly her sister, her mother. . .and they were gone. . . 'Eanlaen!' she called again, desperately, wildly. She sobbed helplessly, standing where she had lain and wrapping her arms tightly about herself.

A hand touched her shoulder gently. She quivered but didn't turn to look to see who it was. But then a voice spoke, whispering softly in the stillness that followed her outbreak. 'Athwen. . .'

'No,' she whispered, her breath trembling with the word. 'It's no good. I didn't want. . .I didn't want to stay. You know I didn't. Not when. . .not when everyone. . .' She drew another shuddering breath and her tear blinded eyes darted back and forth as though watching for something. But nothing came and nothing happened and minute after minute she stood there, absolutely still, except for the jerking breaths her crying brought in and out.

[Undómë]

She gave him a list of horrible consequences that would befall him if she found he’d gone back on his promise. But he was already slipping into sleep and the grip on her hand was loosening. She tucked his hand beneath the blanket and pulled the edge of his covers up under his chin. Her fingers slid gently over his scarred cheek.

Meghan was tired. Her head had quit its fierce ache, but now her joints and muscles picked up the protest of this awful day. She spread out her bedroll close to Brand and eased herself gratefully into it.

She did not know how long she had slept, but the fire had burned very low when the shrill cry rent the night. Meghan sat up, her heart pounding. ‘Please, please let it not be another attack!’ she gasped, her sleep fogged eyes taking in the hill top in quick glances. There were no figures moving about save for that of the young woman, Athwen. And she stood as if rooted to the spot where her blankets now lay in a tangle.

'Ean!' Athwen called, her voice broken, high, and shrill. 'Eanlaen, come back!’ The girl hugged herself in the cold night air, calling out once again in a wild voice. ‘Eanlaen!’

She approached the young woman with some caution. Athwen looked as one possessed, and Meghan had no desire to add to whatever demons had come to her in the night. She thought of herself when she was just a little girl and her father had died. There were terrible dreams that had come to her after his passing. And she remembered what her brother had done for her.

‘Athwen,’ she said softly, laying her hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. There was no response at first; then, Athwen began to talk, but not to Meghan. Something or someone invisible held her attention. Still Meghan knew it would do no good for her just to stand her, cold in the night, battling demons. And she suspected that the real demon was the girl, herself. She had made some choice, for good or ill, it made no difference to her at this point, and now that choice preyed on her mind.

Meghan stooped down and picked up the tangled blankets, wrapping one around the other woman. ‘Ean’s not here, Athwen. It’s only me, Meghan.’ She spoke gently, putting her arm round Athwen’s shoulders and walked her haltingly to where she’d left her own bedroll. ‘Only me . . . and look, here’s Brand. He’s sleeping and so are the others. It’s night and we’ve had a bad, awful day. It’s no wonder your dreams are filled with frights and dark things.’

‘Come, you’re so cold. And I can see your weariness in your eyes.’ She pulled the girl down to her blankets. ‘Snuggle in against me; I’ll put my arms around you tight . . . just like my brother used to do to drive away the terrors in the night for me. I’ll hold you safe. And when the light comes you can tell me of this Ean that you called after. I’d like that . . . to hear a little of your life . . .’

‘Lie down, won’t you, Athwen? Come take some rest . . .’

[Folwren]

Did she really feel the arms about her? Drawing her in and casting warmth over her entire body? Athwen heard the gentle voice breaking into her troubled, dreaming mind, but she didn't really understand the words. Still, they calmed her enough to lead her away from that horrible black abyss before her. The arms directed her to lie down, and always that soft, calming voice spoke to her.

'Lie down, won't you, Athwen? Come, take some rest. . .'

The world was not as bleak and empty as she had supposed. She had not been left completely alone. Someone had been sent in her time of greatest need. . .

She was safe, and she knew it. She shivered as the last bit of cold left her and then she made one last sob and was silent, curled up by Meghan's side with the young woman's arms about her. The embrace was like a shield, impassible and guarding, and she was not alone. That's all she needed. The dreams did not return and Athwen slept, worn out by the day's troubles, like a child in its crib.

[Arry]

Brand stifled a groan. Not because his shoulder pained him, but because he was snug and warm beneath the blankets and he could put off no longer the call of nature. He wriggled his torso a bit beneath the covers . . . aahh, good! . . . the pain that had been so sharp and hard last night had diminished with sleep. He drew back the edge of the blanket where he’d pulled it to his forehead and saw that the sun was just about to rise.

With as quiet an effort as he could, he leveraged himself up to a sitting position. A few of the companions were already up. One was crouched on the other side of the fire, feeding the flames with fresh kindling and broken branches. And someone, perhaps the same person, had filled a pot with water and set it over the fire.

There were a number still within their bedrolls. Not too far from him he saw Sythric. The man was pale and Brand hoped his wounds were of the sort he could recover from.

He turned his attention, smiling as he considered her sleeping form, to Meghan. And there, curled snug against her was Athwen, still lost in sleep herself. He had a vague remembrance of some disturbance in the night . . . someone crying out. And Meghan had got up to see to it. He pulled the blanket down slightly from her face and brushed a few wisps of hair back from her face. There was a thin line of scabbed over wound that came up from her neck to spiral onto her cheek. He touched it lightly with his fingertips.

With a little effort he rolled away from the sleeping women and got to his feet. For a moment he felt quite light-headed and he wondered if he might topple over altogether. But a few deep breaths seemed to bring his balance back and he went off toward a clump of trees and bushes a little ways from camp.

--- ooooo --- ooooo ---

He stopped on his way back to camp and dragged in a little more wood for the morning fire. The effort of doing just that surprised him. He was relieved when he’d reached the fire and was able to leave off the burden.

After washing the dirt and pitch from his hands, Brand crouched down near the flames and tried to warm them as best he could. He could see his breath in the chill. Leod was stirring some herbs into the pot of hot water, making tea. Brand allowed himself to be looked over by the healer, who pronounce him fit enough to ride but issued the stern warning that there was to be no abrupt of his left arm lest he tore open his wound. The old man gave him a cup of steaming tea and sat down beside him at Brand’s request.

‘Tell me of the others, grandfa . . . Leod,’ Brand asked after a few sips of the welcome warm brew.

Most of the wounds Leod explained to him were fairly superficial; their bearers would be sore and bruised for a number of days but they would be fine to ride. The worst, Brand was told, were himself, Vaenosa, and Sythric. Brand assured Leod he would be able to ride that day, even if only a half day or so. Leod raised his brows, and said nothing further about that.

Vaenosa, he did say, had been struck deeply in the left thigh with an arrow. He’d taken it out of course, but the muscle would be painful and inflamed for quite a while. And with too much activity it might open up and re-bleed. Also, she’d been wounded in the back by a spear. She was breathing alright, so it hadn’t punctured a lung, still it was a large wound that again might re-open if she did too much activity.

Sythric was the most injured, battered and wounded almost beyond his endurance, Leod told him. He was getting medicines to help him, and he seemed awake now, but it was likely that how he felt would determine how far, or even if, they would travel that day.

Brand nodded his head thoughtfully at all that Leod told him. He assured the healer, too, that he would take his counsel and cut short the ride if Leod felt the others were not up to it.

Talk then fell to grimmer subjects. Rædwald’s body could not be left to the mercy of the birds and beasts. ‘Then let us honor him as we did the fallen of your village, Leod,’ Brand offered. ‘There are plenty of branches,’ he went on. ‘Let’s see to those who are able gathering enough for a pyre. We’ll send him off as best we can.’

--- ooooo --- ooooo ---

After a light breakfast, all of those able to walk gathered the fuel for the funeral blaze. Rædwald was washed, his hair braided, and he was dressed in a clean tunic and breeches. His mail shirt was put on over it, his helm on his head. His body was laid atop the heaping of branches and twigs, then, and his spear laid by his side. Brand cut a length of mane from Rædwald’s horse and laid it in the old warrior’s hand.

A number of the companions stood round the pyre, torches burning. In silence and almost as one, they thrust their brands into the tangle of twigs and wood. The flames leapt up; the fire racing from twig to branch about the pyre.

‘Thank you, my friend,’ Brand murmured low, as he pushed his torch into the piling of wood. ‘I’ll keep watch over her, as I promised. All speed to you now. Rise up in the smoke, Rædwald. Let the flames carry your spirit to a peaceful rest.’

[Undómë]

She had not allowed herself to cry for him. There had been so much to get done and others to see to that she had tucked him away in a corner of her mind . . . for later . . .

And even now as she stood near the burning bier the tears did not come. This past day was a time so jaggedly out of context that his death did not seem real to her. But she knew when it would hit her . . .

Back in the low hilly country where they set their goats out to pasture . . . that’s when the sadness would o’erwhelm her. Against the sky and hills of home a figure would be missing; no more to be seen with his wide grin and his low easy voice moving his flock about, keeping them safe . . . she would not hear the tinkle of the little bells that sang out sweetly from the end of his staff as he walked along . . .

In the small black hole inside her where he had disappeared, she dammed up her tears, and when she was safe again at home he would cry for him.

Meghan’s hand reached beneath her cloak to fetch out her little wooden flute. No song came to her that she might play for him. The music, too, it seemed was dammed up with her tears. Instead, she threw the flute up to where he lay. Caught in the wavering heat from the fire, it shimmered for a moment as it fell upon his still form.

She gathered her cloak about her, shivering as she did so; though the heat of the flames echoed in the redness of her cheeks.

[Nogrod]

Comforted by Dorran, Sythric fell in deep sleep. Towards the morning, his dreams got lighter, and eventually he was aware of people getting into that so familiar morning-hassle of a riding-camp. Then he heard Raedwald being mentioned.

He is dead! ... He is dead! Sythric managed to open his eyes, and saw a pyre being readied, Raedwald’s body was being hoisted on the top of it. Not the lance!, he yelled inside his mind, noting Raedwald’s lance beside the man at the pyre, as Brand was just about to lit the whole thing.

Sythric struggled himself up. The pain was there, yes it was, but Leod’s potions seemed to work. Half of his body was downright numb. It was a weird sensation to walk without feeling the left side of his body at all. And it was hard indeed, just keeping the balance that way. He has stuffed my side with some magic, I say..., he thought, as he pulled along with the others, surrounding the pyre.

He took his place in the ring around the fire beside Meghan and watched the flames consume the body of Raedwald. “Goodbye, dear friend”, he whispered in a low voice. He felt, that Meghan had heard him. Then he gazed the people around the pyre. It was a solemn moment, and everyone seemed to have gone deep inside themselves. Vaenosa was tightly bandaged and looked pale, Brand seemed to stay firm with pure willpower. There is a sturdy man! He could have made a rider indeed!, Sythric thought to himself, simultaneously eying the rest of the company.

Then his eyes settled back to the pyre. Raedwald’s body was already being eaten by the flames, turning black and charred. I will miss you, my friend. And curse it, I couldn’t be there to help you yesterday! But I had to take on those ones coming downhill – as they were the worst threat to us all, and I was there – and you were not... And I took Brand with me – and look at him now! We took the bruises, and you took to the eternity! You really had safeguarded those others, I just know it. It’s the way you did your part. Oh, how I miss you! Raedwald! He threw his gaze around the ring around the pyre once more with wetted eyes. These are just amazing people, the power of Rohan is in these young people, I have known it all the time! You were not alone, Raedwald! We are not alone, anyone of us! You helped to save them once, I have to be ready to do that again! He catched Vaenosa’s eyes and tried to smile comfortingly – probably failing altogether. She’s a spirited young lady. How good, I was there in time! But could have been earlier..., he thought, and continued by himself: I would surely prefer ten riders as a company, but as the things are, she is a real fighter – and these others too. I believe it now!

The movement he sensed from the corner of his eye brought him back to the present. Meghan had picked up her flute, and was staring at it intensely. Then she threw it to the flames. Sythric felt the tears bursting from his eyes, but fought back this time. He saw Meghan pulling her cloak around her, shivering, but not crying.

Sythric took the two steps needed to come by Meghan’s side and wrapped his right arm around her, pressing her tenderly against him. Meghan glanced at his eyes for a moment, full of sorrow, and then turned her gaze to the pyre again. Then they just stood there, in silence.

Eventually the people started to disperse from the pyre, but Sythric and Meghan remained still. They just stood there, Sythric having his arm around Meghan, and Meghan just gently leaning to him. They didn’t need any words, as they felt the sharing of the same anguish, together.

“We’ll make you a new one”, Sythric whispered to Meghan’s ear, “He would have appreciated it.” He squeezed her shoulder lightly: “You know he would have. You’ll just have to play once more to his memory, one day.” With that he let go his hold and turned to face her. “Be brave my girl. We both have suffered a great loss, but for his sake, we will have to continue.” He tried a smile again, and felt again having missed the intended effect. He slowly turned away to go back to his bedroll.

The pain was back, as he kneeled to collect his things from the ground. He grasped them anyway, biting his lip not to yell from the pain. He walked to Thydrë and started to pack her up. Suddenly he turned around, facing most of the others, and declared in all the voice he had. “I’m going to ride with you today, but if I’m dropping behind you during the ride, just keep going, don’t hesitate to continue. I can take care of myself, if needs be. And if someone else is falling behind, we might make it together. The mission is now the first thing we have, the thing that counts. We wounded can be left behind in a need.” With that he turned back to continue with his packing, finding out, that certain movements just burst his side with a pain too strong to deal with – and so he had to make pauses as he packed Thydrë, trying to hoist and tie things on her without his left hand. I could do with some of that medicine of Leod’s. If for nothing else, then just to ease the pain, he thought to himself. Suddenly he turned again towards the others. “Oh, and collect every useful item those dead easterlings bore with them. I’m sorry, but I can’t be of help with that now.”

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Fire claimed the body of their fallen comrade; a companion murdered by the fell blows of an enemy far greater than a small company could ever hope to surpass. A war was coming, but for now there was a greater fear undertone. One had been claimed, body to ashes. As far and fast as they had come, they had not yet escaped the flames.

Ashes.

Fire had claimed the village. And now fire had claimed the body of Raedwald. And Eostre had no heart to cry even after she had stared into the heat of those flames to glance away and blink eyes into the dimmer lights with white overriding. She couldn't. How could she?

And now that the flames dimmed, and most had left the pyre's side, things were a strange sort of silent. They would leave soon. In the meantime, there were bodies to search; perhaps there were things left to scavage from the corpses. Weapons, perhaps gold or rope; even clothing might almost have been of use to the rumpled party in some ways.

Edoras had to arrive soon, before more people were murdered.