Outracing the Flames RPG

[Undómë]

Meghan was careful to follow the Elven woman’s instructions about the leaves. As she stirred each one carefully into their own little pots of water, she sniffed at the fingers with which she’d crushed them. There was a sharp, clean smell that lingered on her fingertips . . . a deep smell, redolent of the sort one gets when a storm is about to break over the fields and the air is heavy, pregnant with the scent of promised rain. The aroma lifted her spirit a little, giving her some small measure of hope.

She left two of the pots of leaf-brew near the fire to keep warm, instructing Incana not to let anyone touch them until the Elven healer called for them. The other two she hurried back with to Nevtaliel, careful not to spill a single precious drop.

As she neared where the Elven woman knelt down by Brand, she heard Dorran’s question. ‘Do you think that you will be able to save him?’ Meghan’s breath caught in her chest as she stopped short, fearing what the healer might say in response.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Nevtaliel smiled at Dorran, now kneeling beside her, and gazed pointedly over his shoulder at Meghan, who had approached bearing pots in her hands. With a sigh the Elf conceded, "I hope it may be so, but I can not promise. We must first bathe Brand's wound in this mixture and then place the second pot close by that he may smell its goodness. Sometimes, the sweetness of the herb works immediately, and a patient will wake up, almost as though cured of the illness or wound. Other times, signs of healing come very slowly after many hours. And sometimes, I am afraid, the injury or sickness has spread too far and, no matter what we do, there is no healing, not even with the kingsfoil, at least not within the bounds of Arda."

"But do not show me such long, worried faces. These will not help your friend. This herb and my own skill are important, but they can not do the job alone. Your faith and belief in Brand are just as important. There is much in the hearts of Elves and Men we do not understand. Perhaps even as your friend lies stricken, seemingly asleep, waging a battle against the dark shadows, he can sense your support and love, and it encourages him to fight on. My people call this estel. All other hope fades away; you stand on the edge of a great chasm with no other place to turn. It seems nothing in Arda can help, yet you refuse to give in. This is the kind of hope you must nurture in your heart."

With those words, Nevtaliel turned away for a minute. Looking out into the night, she whispered a soft plea to Estë, the healer of the Valar who dresses in grey, to bring peace to the wounded and afflicted, and all those who walked within this camp. Then the Elf bathed and dressed Brand's wounds and placed the pot of sweet-smelling herbs close by that he might draw in their goodness. Finishing with her job, she stood up and instructed Meghan to keep watch over Brand, while she went over to help Leod with Sythric.

[Arry]

For what seemed an endless space of time Brand followed after Vaenosa. Her footsteps faded beneath the long rows of leafless trees; her figure disappeared in the interwoven shadows of the branches. Someone had called to him, touched his arm as if to make him turn. He had pulled away. And when he looked back there was no one to be seen.

It was the breezes in this dark land that made him pause. They bore on their airs an enticing scent. A clean, sweet scent that made him turn, reminding him of all that was good and bright in his life; all that was graceful.

A face from the old stories his great-grandfather told loomed over him. She was tall and beautiful in form. The day’s light backlit her fair features, throwing them into soft shadows, and he could feel her hands working at his wound. Gently, firmly.

He could hear her soft-spoken words as she gave instruction to others, too, who were at his side. He thought to turn, to look at them, but the Elven woman’s presence caught and held his full attention.

Then she stood up, and just as quickly as she had come, slipped away from him. The scent she’d brought lingered about him, undiminished. Someone else slipped down beside him; other hands adjusted his covers. A familiar touch stroked the side of his face as another’s words slid into his thoughts.

‘Brand!’ he heard his name called.

His throat was quite parched and it was with some difficulty he rasped out a few words. ‘I’m here. I’m here. Just let me sleep for a while . . .’

[Tevildo]

Leod leapt up and hurried towards the Elven healer, lowering his voice to speak privately with her. "Thank goodness you are here, Nevtaliel. I am at my wits end with Sythric. At least with Brand, I understood what ailed him, even though my herbs were powerless to heal his wounds."

"For the most part, it appears that Sythric's wound is healing. Only there is still one area of redness. Let me show you. But, in truth, it is not the wound that worries me the most. Sythric has been slipping in and out of conciousness for the past two days. I have heard him mutter to himself as if wrestling with a great demon in dreams. Yet I do not understand why this should be so, since his fever is not high."

He led Nevtaliel over to where Sythric was still on his knees, leaning against a great stone and embracing it with his hands. Sythric's cheek was pressed against its jagged surface. He was breathing heavily but slowly. There was a fresh blood stain on his jerkin, although only a spot or two. What was more upsetting was that Sythric's eyes were wide open, yet he seemed oblivious to all that was going on about him.

"I don't understand," mumbled Leod. "He is conscious and awake, yet it is as if something tugs at his mind and pulls him down into dark shadows. He stares out at the camp but sees none of us. Still, in another minute or two, he will pull himself out of this state and begin to talk and act much more normally, though very tired and in considerable pain."

"I have never seen a man act like this. Can you tell me what is wrong?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Nevtaliel listened carefully to Leod's description of Sythric's behavior. It reminded her of another Elf she had cared for some years ago when she and her husband had journeyed to the East. The Elf they had encountered on the road was acting in a manner almost identical to that described by the human healer: slipping in and out of a strange dreamlike state. And, like Sythric, this Elf had fallen prey to the weapon of an Easterling, a sharp curved blade that had gashed him in the leg.

"I am not certain about your friend." the Elven healer replied. "But I do have one idea. Let me examine the man more closely." By this time Sythric had let go of the rock and settled back on the ground, his face riddled with exhaustion and pain. He did not pull back when Nevtaliel extended her hand and gently stroked his brow.

"Leod, Dorran had already mentioned to me that your group had fought for the entire day, and that you had to stitch up the wounds in evening, with very little light other than that provided by the smoldering coals in the firepit. You could barely see what you were doing."

Leod nodded mutely in agreement, a look of discomfort flitting across his face as he remembered thinking that he could not do his best work if he could not see the wounds properly.

"You did the best you could in trying circumstances," Nevtaliel added reassuringly. "No one could ask for more. And you had no idea of the devious weapons that the Easterlings employ. Now go over to the campfire and collect the two pots that Meghan has prepared and bring them back to me. While you are gone, I am going to pull out your stitches and have a look at the wound again. If my guess is right, there may still be a tiny sliver from the blade left inside. I'll try and explain then what I think has happened."

Carefully, Nevtaliel removed the stitches and peered closely at the wound. She took a pointed silver probe from her bag and cautiously searched about. It took her several minutes of close inspection. The small fragment was not easy to find, and it was no wonder that Leod had neglected to see it in the grey shadows of the campfire. She removed the piece and set it on the ground being careful not to touch it.

When Leod came back, he looked down in embarassment to see a small fragment of the blade that had broken off. Impulsively, he reached out to touch it but was immediately stopped by the Elf. "No, you mustn't. Have Dorran or one of the others dig a small pit to dispose of it at the edge of the camp. We must cover it over for it can still do great harm to whoever comes upon it."

She then went on to explain, "You see, it is the custom of some Easterlings to poison the tip of their swords and spears and even to have them constructed in such a way that a minute fragment breaks off once the weapon enters the skin. That tiny piece of metal is smeared with a deadly ungent that brings not healing but a slow and painful death. Now that this fragment is gone, I shall clean the wound with the kingsfoil mixture and put another steaming pot of the herb near Sythric so that he may take in its healing scent. Other than that, Leod, we can only wait and hope. Only time will tell if Sythric is strong enough to battle the ill effects of the poison. Even now the foul stuff is coursing through his body. There is nothing that I can do to stop that. But at least the source of the evil has been removed. He is the one who must struggle with the shadow and pull himself back to life."

"I would not be surprised to see his condition worsen tonight. By morning, the poison should have done its worst, and we will know whether or not he will return to life."

[Undómë]

The atmosphere about the little camp was subdued. Try as it might, the late autumn’s sunlight could not drive away the pall of apprehension that clung to the company. An unvoiced question added further concern to the already apprehensive group. What would happen if the two wounded men could not ride soon. Would the group break apart, with some going on to Edoras and some staying behind? Or would the whole company stay together until all could travel on?

Brand seemed to be doing better. But he had seemed so before and then worsened to a perilous level. Meghan sat by his side for the greater part of the day, and only at the urging of the Elven healer took some rest.

A close eye, too, was being kept of Sythric. His wound was well-dressed and had seemingly slowed in its tendency to bleed. But Nevtaliel had said that despite her arts, the poison from the Easterling’s weapon must run its course. And that their only hope was that he was strong enough to fight its effects.

Meghan had offered her small pouch of dried meat to Fion and Incana who were making a kettle of soup for the midday and evening meal. Others of the companions had offered up some of their own provisions and a savory broth had been made with bits of meats and some edible tubers which others of the group had been able to find. The soup grew more enticing as the day went on and more bits of meat and vegetables were added to it.

In the early evening, Meghan woke from the much needed nap she had taken. Not meaning to of course . . . she had only thought to close her eyes for a few moments. She woke with a start, the air having grown a little colder as the sun progressed in its downward arc. Sitting up, she stretched her back, trying to work the kinks from it.

Fion sat beside Brand, and nodded at her as she looked his way. He flicked his eyes toward the sleeping figure and then pointed to the empty bowl lying near him. Meghan shivered, a small sliver of excitement racing up her spine at the thought that Brand must be getting better, as he had eaten some of the soup.

She looked over to where Sythric lay. ‘How does he fare? Has he been awake at all?’ she asked one of the companions who sat near the older man.