Outracing the Flames RPG

[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.

[Undómë]

Rædwald

No sooner had the Easterling fallen from his horse than a bone crushing thunk . . . thunk sounded behind Rædwald. His face took on a grimace of surprise fading to a look of fondness and regret as he cast a look at Meghan.

Two arrows sunk deep in his back, followed by another then as it hit him in the chest, sinking toward the old soldier’s heart. Death’s garden bloomed on the field of his tunic; its red flowers growing and spreading until the source of their nourishment was spent altogether. He tumbled from his saddle and lay at last on the cold ground of his last battle, sightless eyes staring into the bloody melee as it swirled about him.

-------

Meghan

She was no seasoned warrior to keep her emotions well in check in the twists and turns of battle. Meghan jumped down from her horse and ran to where Rædwald lay. Her face was as pale as his as she held his heavy head in her arms and keened over him.

In some, anger might then have fueled her actions, and had she been a shield-maiden of the Mark she might have risen up like a berserker and slain many of the foe. But she was not so. The fight had gone out of her at the death of her friend; his death siphoning of her spirit even as his fled his cold remains.

It was an easy thing, then, for one of Easterlings afoot to knock her senseless with his club and hand her up to one of his fellows on horse. She offered no resistance in her dazed state as he carried her back to his Lord.

[Arry]

Brand collapsed under the weight of the Easterling; the suddenness of the impact causing his blade to go flying from his hand as his outflung arm hit the ground. It skittered along the dirt, well out of his reach, and landing at last against a small rocky outcropping.

The Easterling, now astride him, had already drawn a knife from his belt and rising up was about to drive it deep into Brand’s gut. Brand fumbled quickly for his own knife and pushed it hard into the man’s chest, just below his breastbone. The thrust of the Easterling’s knife went askew. But though it did not pierce his gut, it buried itself deeply in Brand’s left shoulder with the weight of the falling man’s body behind it.

And now Brand was defenseless. His knife buried in the toppled man, his club fallen somewhere in battle. His sword, he remembered, had fallen a number of yards away. And it was with a grim determination that he scrabbled toward it.

The effort of simply moving those few yards nearly did him in. His vision was hazy with pain, and he could feel the sticky wetness of his tunic as blood from his wound seeped out. Pale and sweaty, he sat down, his back against the rocks, legs stretched out before him. He drew his blade onto his thighs, gripping it as best he could with his weakening grip. He was cold to the bone and drew his breath in short ragged gasps. The sound of hooves passed by him, and he could make no effort to rise. But the Easterling horseman passed by, intent on other grim business.

Through clouded eyes Brand could just see some body thrown over the horse, in front of the rider. A thick, honey blond plait swung down from the poor creature’s head. A woman hung there loosely; her eyes closed.

‘Meghan!’ he shouted. A sharp burning pain shot through him as he strove to rise. He fell back against the rock . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Child's post

Calimehtar's rage in battle knew no bounds. The "fools" were proving to be more formidable opponents than he had bargained for. Who knew that a ragged band of women and beardless youth could be so tenacious? Even the horses on which they rode seemed to be seasoned warriors as they twisted and turns to get out of the way of the slashing swords and then surged forward with raised hooves to lash out at the enemy.

A number of Calimehtar's men had already been cut down by the swords of the enemy; they now lay bleeding and lifeless on the ground. The lord of the Easterlings cursed under his breath. He had made a mistake in judgment, a major mistake in judgment. It would have been better to wait for the night after the camp had fallen asleep, when he could have picked the strangers off one at a time under the comfortable cover of night. But now they must fight for their life, perhaps attempt to regroup, and run off to fight another time.

While thrusting out with sword and spear, Calimehtar watched in frustration as one of the Easterling horses fell under the assault, the animal's knees buckled under his body. The rider flew off and hit the ground with a resounding thud as Calimentar rushed forward to position himself in front of the fallen Easterling, facing the Rohanite who had sent the spear into the horse's side.

Lifting his sword high above the man's head, he let go a great battle cry and thrust his blade downward at his neck and shoulder. Unable to regain his balance, Sythric would do nothing but cover his head with his shield, in a vain attempt to parry the oncoming blow. The blade was defected but the shield immediately flew from Sythric's tight grasp and fell useless onto the forest floor. Seeing his advantage, Calimehtar dashed in and slashed down with his weapon; his blade cut the edge of Sythric's shirt and sliced into the flesh below, leaving a trail of blood along the man's side. Forcing aside the pain that was just now registering on his brain, Sythric twisted his body, and dropping to the ground, managed to retreat hastily from the attacking Easterling and jump behind the protective cover of one of the horses.

Seeing his victim attempt to escape, Calimehtar raced forward to pursue the wounded man, but was stopped in his tracks by an unearthly howl coming from the top of the hill, "Calimehtar! Come now." The urgency in the voice was unmistakenable. Calimehtar turned and began struggling up the muddy hillside.

_____________________________

The rider had thought to offer his fair haired prize directly to Lord Calimehtar, but one of the others had snapped out a warning that all female prisoner must be taken to the ridge where Aliharmi waited. The man bounded up the hillside, the woman's lithe form still draped over his saddle. When he finally reached the hilltop, Aliharmi reached over and yanked Meghan's body off the horse and then bid the man adieu, telling him to return to his post below. Meghan fell to the ground with a dull thud. Aliharmi bent closer to examine the prisoner and rolled her body over onto her back so that he could gaze upon her face.

Nice, very nice. She'll fetch a pretty penny on the market. Aliharmi rubbed his plump hands together in sheer anticipation of the reward that they would garner. This one still had some life in her unlike the ruined and lifeless women he'd often seen back in Mordor. He took out a knife and rubbed his finger along the edge of the blade. It wouldn't do to ruin the merchadise, yet Aliharmi felt an unrelenting urge to press the blade against the side of her face and place his mark upon the woman. A few cuts and decorative swirls made a face interesting and surely would be appreciated by the discriminating connosieur who enjoyed wild and intriguing women. Aliharmi placed his dagger against Megha's cheek and began to exert pressure with his fingers. He let up for a moment and withdrew the dagger. How much more fun it would be to instill terror in this pretty little soul? Surely, this was an opportunity not to be missed.

He gently rocked the woman awake, patting and fussing over her almost like a young child. Still dazed and confused, Meghan groggily opened her eyes to see the Easterling lord brandishing an ornate blade in the air. He flashed it conspicuously before her face, laying the sharp edge flush against her throat. A smile spread over Aliharmi's face as he carefully began to draw it across her skin.

Out of nowhere came a howling cry like a wild beast trapped in a cage or a beserker who has lost his wits. A young lad, darker than the Rohirrim, grim of visage and utterly desperate, came racing over the hill, utterly oblivious to the danger at hand. He bore an axe in his right hand and a dagger in the left, both extended outward. Aliharmi stood transfixed, scarcely believing that a child like this would dare accost him and suddenly realized the danger he was in. Aliharmi turned from Meghan and cried out for help, "Calimehtar. Come." He stared in disbelief as Dorran charged forward, showing no sign of stopping.

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Undómë's post

Meghan felt the sharp sting of the blade as the keen edge slid across her throat. Blood pooled along the neat cut, dripping down into her collar. The pain brought her to her senses; her eyes snapping open to see the horrid, leering face of one of the Easterling warriors looming over her.

She dared not scream or move, fearing his knife would be pushed deeper as he made his furrow along her skin. Just when she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer the pressure lightened; there was a loud raging howl and he turned from her abruptly.

Dragging herself up to a sitting position, she saw the younger man from Wulfham come charging across the ground toward her captor. His eyes were ablaze and he charged toward the Easterling as one gone mad.

A desperate anger rose up in her that these foul men should try to harm her or any of her companions, new and old. She felt helpless, though, her weapons were gone, and her small self would be no more threatening to these men than a flea to a wolf.

The small germ of an idea began to take hold. If only she hadn’t left them behind. No . . . there they were! Her hand slid into the top of her right boot and pulled out the two metal needles she used for knitting. She grasped them both in her hands and got to her knees.

The Easterling was focused Dorran’s attack. She scuffled up near him and drove the weight of her body toward him, plunging the sharp tips of the needles through the breeches the man wore. As they pierced the back of his left knee he turned just enough to backhand her away from him. The sharp crack of his hand against her jaw sent her flying backward. She landed a little ways away, her small form crumpled against a tree trunk.

[Tevildo]

Dorran's slender frame collided with that of the massive Aliharmi. Rage poured out from every fiber of his small being. There were too many memories flooding his mind, too many reminders of mothers and sisters and friends dragged off and tormented by the Easterlings. At least Meghan had succeeded in slipping a short distance away from her captor so that she was out of immediate danger.

The more powerful but less agile Aliharmi managed to keep on his feet, but just barely, thrown off balance by the rutted and muddy terrain. Lumbering up to confront his attacker, Aliharmi ripped out his sword and lunged towards Dorran but the attempt fell clumsily short. Attempting to step back and regroup, his feet met with a thick patch of oozing mud. With the Easterling no longer attacking, the young man again threw himself forward, this time slashing sideways with his axe. There was a resounding thud as Dorran sank his axe head into the larger man's chest. His victim fell to the ground instantanously. The body gave one shudder and then fell silent. Filled with a madness he was unable to control, Dorran lunged forward one last time. Lifting the axe above his head, he brought it down on Aliharmi's prone body two more times.

As Dorran realized what he was doing, the young man shook his head in disgust and let the axe handle slip through his fingers. He ran over to where Meghan lay huddled under the tree and bent down to help her. It was at that moment that the Lord of the Easterlings bounded up the hill, scimiter drawn, and charged straight for Dorran and Meghan.

[Nogrod]

The impact wrenched the shield from Sythric’s grip and pushed his whole body backwards. It was a mighty blow. He was just about to regain his balance, when he saw the next swing coming in from above him. Sythric tried to yank his body backwards as fast as he could, to avoid the hit.

First, after the softened impact, it just felt as a gentle touch sliding down his side. But he knew, the easterling hade managed to make a hit that penetrated his breast-armour. The pain would come only afterwards, in its due time. Sythric let his backward motion carry him off the saddle, turning his body as he fell. He got to his feet, Thydrë being between him and the easterling chieftain. He called Thydrë to run, slapping her hard to her back. Time! Time! Sythric saw an easterling horse tramping nervously but idly, some ten yards away from him – its rider had fallen dead to the ground. He took a run towards it, trying to unsheath his sword while making towards it. Glancing fastly behind, he saw the easterling-lord to get around Thydrë – with some effort. Good Thydrë! I love you! But he was after him now.

Then there was that weird, howling cry that about silenced everything on the battlefield. It came from the ridge. And it was followed by a much harsher – but not more secure – call, in a language he couldn’t understand. Sythric saw the easterling-lord’s eyes narrowing, his expression showing growing contempt. Then he spurred his horse up the hill.

That howl came from no fully grown man! Sythric was at the same time releaved as the imminent danger to himself was lifted, and even more worried. He tried to scan the battleground as fast as he could. The easterlings seemed to be on their way up to the ridge. Where were Raedwald, Meghan, Dorran, or Vaenosa? And then he saw it. The cry came from his lips without reflecting on it, his voice breaking as he shouted: “Raedwald!!!”. His eyes had went black for a moment, just as he had seen Raedwald lying on the ground, two arrows on his back. He went through simultaneous bursts of maddening anger and utmost sorrow and pain. Tears bursting from his eyes, he rushed forwards to Raedwald's dead body. But the pain stopped him. His side was in flames now. He tried to make a compromise between the speed and the pain. He was dead. He is dead!

You will not stop now! You will not stop here! He would scorn you, if you let this go unavenged. He would scorn you, if you didn’t try to save this day! All these young people here! Do it!

He called Thydrë and picked Readwald’s lance from the ground, touching the dead man’s shoulder with the tip of it, as a sign of honour - the way the riders used to do. “C’mon all of you, ready to help our friends! Let’s ride up to the ridge, after those bastards! There are people in trouble!”. He tried to jump on Thydrë as usual, and felt the agonizing pain on his side. He had to try again. On the second time he managed to mount her, but the pain almost stunned him. He recollected himself soon enough and spurred Thydrë to a gallop. He didn’t wait to see, whether anyone followed or not. This was a mission he was going to see to its end, whether anyone was in it or not. Those easterlings – and that lord, who had sneakingly got the better of him, while he was helping a friend! But where is Brand? How is he?