The Fellowship of the Fourth Age (Part 1): A New Beginning RPG

[piosenniel]

Hilde Bracegirdle's post - Carl


It had been two weeks now since Carl had hand delivered a rather bulky packet of papers to the Citadel at the top of the city. As it turned out Sam Gamgee’s carefully folded message to King Elessar had also included a letter of introduction for Carl and, as the hobbit also saw, a note addressed to the king and queen in his niece Elanor’s fine script. Carl was surprised when the King had bid him stay as he took his time over their contents, and after exchanging a few words with the hobbit, to ask Carl questions regarding The Thain for the most part, he smiled his gratitude, telling a tall fellow who stood nearby to make arrangements for this special messenger. He was to be made comfortable and stay as long as he wished before returning home.

Perhaps it was the easiest victory that Elessar had ever had, having won the hobbit over unknowingly within minutes, the monarch’s good-natured ways and Sam’s high regard largely contributing. And so Carl was happy to stay, though he asked if it might be on the Pelennor rather than in the city, for the grandeur of Minas Tirith, with its high white walls of cut stone, had nearly taken his breath away when his pony Stumps emerged from the fields to plod up the causeway. And the hobbit had waxed wide-eyed and apprehensive, upon approaching the tall gates.

After having had those two weeks among the farms in the shadow of Mount Mindolluin, Carl had grown somewhat accustomed to his surroundings, settling in nicely. Truly he enjoyed walking through the fields spending his days learning about new crops and the methods used to propagate them. And his host seemed to enjoy showing the newcomer around, slowly loading the hobbit’s baggage down with hardy and exotic seeds to try once he had returned to the Shire.

But at the end of two weeks Carl naturally began wondering just how much longer he should stay. He had half expected that he might be given some message to take back to the Shire, though the King’s response to Sam’s had been quite clear without it. He knew Elessar would be only too happy to have The Mayor and his family make the long journey south to Gondor. And so Carl sat on a stone outside the farmer’s house, figuring, after his large breakfast, just what he should do, when a fine young man in a heavily embroidered uniform appeared, walking briskly up the road. Heading straight for the hobbit, he stopped with his polished boots just within the shadow of Carl's seat. “Master Nibs?” he inquired.

Carl looked up from the boots, amused that the stranger knew the name, one which Sam no doubt had used in his letter of introduction, he replied, “Yes, that would be me,” as he slid off the large stone. He had noted a scroll in the fellow’s hand from a distance, and was feeling rather more cheerful now. The decision over his departure evidently had been made for him. “Is that for me?” he nodded in the direction of the man’s right hand.

The Gondorian handed Carl the scroll. “A message from the King.”

“Ah, I have been waiting for this!” the hobbit announced, taking the missive and placing it in his trouser pocket.

The man’s expression quickly clouded. “You knew of it? But how could you?”

“I’ve eyes and ears you know. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together,” the hobbit remarked. “To be honest, I thought it might have arrived a bit sooner than this.” At that the man looked puzzled.

“But it is still early,” he murmured.

“Never mind,” Carl said hurriedly. “You may assure the King that I will leave just as soon as I gather what I need for the trip.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself, all preparations have already been made,” the messenger informed him, brightening. “I don’t know the full details, only that you will be traveling with a group the King has himself hand picked.”

“Is that right?” Carl said slowly. He hadn’t planned on being in a group, but it did sound like quite an honor, and he didn’t want to make himself look ungrateful by refusing such gracious hospitality. “Where and when am I to meet this group?”

The messenger hesitated. “We have been instructed that the travelers are to gather outside the royal palace shortly before sunrise tomorrow."

“Then I will be there,” Carl said. "Before first light."

“You might want to look over the message, before you set out,” the Gondorian advised in parting. “To see if you have any concerns.”

The hobbit’s face quickly soured. “Don’t you worry about me,” Carl said gruffly, wondering if it was standard Gondorian practice for messengers to read the letters they carried. He withdrew the scroll from its place in his pocket, turning it over in his hands before carrying it inside and placing it gingerly in his pack, unopened.

His host came over wiping his hands on a rag as he looked out the doorway at the straight back and black uniform of the retreating messenger. “I haven’t gotten you in trouble with the king’s men, now have I?” he whispered.

“Oh, no. He'd come here to deliver this,” the hobbit said, reaching back and withdrawing the scroll again to show to his host.

“Aren’t you going to read it then? It looks important.”

“Read it!" Carl was suddenly fiercely indignant. “Does everyone here always read what is placed in their care? I will take it back to The Mayor, and he can read it!”

The Gondorian farmer reached out and lightly tapped his index finger on the black ink of the document saying meekly, ”But that's your name there Carl, and not your Mayor's.”

"It is?" Carl looked at the parchment, his anger dissolving, “For me? But I never learned to...,” The hobbit didn't finish his thought, in truth he was feeling a bit lost, realizing that he would be leaving soon and empty handed. “Here then, would you be kind enough to read it for me? I can’t for myself you see.”

The farmer willingly obliged, and speaking slowly and haltingly his face registered with emotion as the letter went on.

“Mordor? Mordor!” Carl said weakly when the farmer had fallen silent again. “And here I told the man that I’d go, thinking it only back to the Shire.”

“But it is a noble task you are called to do,” his host said. “Those slaves could have been any one of us, or of our kin.”

“Aye,” Carl breathed. “I am honored to be called upon, but just hope I’m up to such important business.”

“You are, and you must be!” the man said. “The King has called you to be.”

Carl nodded, lapsing into thought.

[piosenniel]

Regin Hardhammer's post - Ishkur


Ishkur glared angrily at the small rock that he had been kicking around the dirt path. He was beginning to regret requesting advance guard duty. Ishkur hated waiting for others particularly when he had absolutely nothing to do. His mission as he vaguely recalled was to scout out the best path of leaving the orc encampment and guide others along it until they were safely out of range. A few hours ago, Ishkur had quietly slipped away and found a trail hidden by the cover of a grove of small trees not far from the southern edge of camp. He had told the others and now waited impatiently for the exodus of rebellious orcs to begin.

The minutes and hours dragged on. It was the women, he thought in exasperation. They always took a long time to move anywhere. Most of them were slow and weak and only served to drag down the group. It had been better when they were kept on separate breeding farms. The longer he waited, the greater the chance that their plot would be detected, and they would all be killed. A group of fifteen orcs fleeing the encampment was ample cause for suspicion by even the most inept captain in a bunch of dim witted misfits. Ishkur would have preferred simply leaving with a small group of male warriors, a much faster and safer plan, but such a dream was not to be. Even Ishkur grudgingly recognized that if their group had any hope of surviving on their own they would need more than a few male warriors. Numbers meant strength and safety. Individual orcs had always been regarded with disdain.

In all his years on Middle-earth, Ishkur had never before been part of a group that ran away from the orc band to which they were assigned. Of course, Ishkur was not participating in this little experiment just to be noble. No, he simply could not stand being lorded over by the pathetic Uruk-hai, the arrogant and overbearing leaders that controlled every facet of life within camp. The idiots thought because they could tolerate the harsh rays of the sun for hours on end they held some sort of superiority over the other orcs. His commander barked orders to his men with an air of marked contempt. He treated Ishkur as inferior, a class below him in intelligence, strength, and capability. The plain fact was that Ishkur was probably a match in fighting with any Uruk-hai and definitely had more brains.

Ishkur had tolerated such vile treatment far too long until he had finally decided to act. He would go with this new group, and they would stake out a territory far to the north of Nurn. From the moment he heard whispers about the expedition in the late hours of drinking around the campfire, he knew that he must join them. They would have the opportunity to go hunting and raiding on their own and would have no need for anyone to approve of what they did. He volunteered to be an advanced guard because he did not want to stay behind and help the weaker ones escape, but he found waiting ahead of the group agonizing. Ishkur returned to kicking the rock, hoping that it would be more interesting than staring in the direction of the orc encampment and wondering how quickly the others would come.

[piosenniel]

Child of the 7th Age's post - Makdush


The sky was still dark when Makdush set out on the path to join the rebels. He had decided not to wait for the females or the other orcs, but to leave early and make his way to the meeting spot where the advance guard was supposed to be.

Makdush's thoughts centered on the battle that was expected to take place in the next day or so. He regretted missing the chance to crack open a few heads and pick up some booty. Still, there was no use staying in camp. Makdush had to admit that no matter how many men he killed in battle, the higher-ups in Nurn were unlikely to reward him in the way he wanted. With Saruman, it had been different. He had ruled over a throng of orcs.

If only the Uruk-hai had been victorious at the Hornburg, things might have turned out differently. By leaving Nurn, he could at least stop being a water-boy for the current commander's favorites. Grimly reflecting on his situation, he muttered to himself, "It's better that I die on the trail than submit to such a disgraceful fate."

As Makdush strode along the path and came to one of those rare groves of scrub trees that grew in Nurn, he spied the advance guard standing in the distance. At first he thought it might be one of his Uruk-hai comrades, since the orc looked to be the same height as a man. But on coming a little closer he saw that the guard was Ishkar, nothing more than a common orc.

Best be friendly and say nothing to insult him, at least for now. He can be prickly. He fancies himself as good as a Uruk. But how a common orc can grow this tall I'll never know.

Still, he wanted no confrontation with Ishkur, who was reputed to be a good hand with the blade. He decided to slink back into the bushes and wait a while for the rest of the group to gather.

[piosenniel]

Undómë's post - Zagra & Mazhg


‘Scared . . . big scared.’ Zagra’s voice, hushed and strained already, trailed off into silence. She leaned against Mazhg as her sister chopped at their shifts. Mazhg was shortening them with a knife she’d stolen from the cook shed, making them into what she hoped would pass for boys’ tunics.

‘I know you’re scared,’ Mazhg, whispered back, nuzzling Zagra’s cheek with her nose. I’m scared too! she thought to herself, though to her sister she spoke in an assured tone. ‘Things will be alright. You just stick to me . . .,’ she said, smiling at Zagra.

‘. . . like a pink tail on a rat!’ Zagra finished. She scooted around so that she could lean her back against her sister’s. ‘Tell me . . . tell me again, Mazhg. What we doing under old white face t’night.’

Though she’d heard it already several times, Zagra’s eyes went wide as Mazhg retold her story of stealing two pairs of breeches, each from two different sides of the camp. And how she’d managed to slip into the cook tent and the storage tent near it – to take a knife from the one, and dried meat and travel-bread from the other.

What Mazhg hadn’t made part of the adventurous tale was how one of the Uruk who was hanging about had spied her crawling out from under the back of the tent. And how he’d hit her hard with his club on the small of her back. The blow had sent her flying. She’d barely scrambled to her feet before he got to her. By some stroke of luck or his own laziness, he’d elected to hurl insults at her retreating form, rather than expend the energy to run her down. She expected he was most likely drunk. Quite drunk, from the smell of fermented mash spirits that hung in a thick cloud about him.

Many of the men were drinking. Getting up their courage for the coming battle against the Easterlings. In the distance, on the other side of the camp, she could see many little fires dotting the plain, and the shadowy forms of Orc men, big and small, wavering in the garish light. Drums, too. They beat loud and louder as the night progressed. A booming heartbeat, strong and mighty; savage it was meant to seem . . . to make the Easterlings’ blood run cold with fear.

Mazhg snickered. She was in no way fond of the Easterlings. But she hoped their knives were sharp and would slit the throat of every man-Orc. She brought her attention back to her sister.

‘Once we’re dressed like I told you, we’re going to sneak off on an adventure. Me and you. To a place where we’ll be safe. Together.’

‘Try this on, Zagra,’ she said, handing one of the shortened shifts to her sister. ‘Let it hang loose about you.’ Mazhg pulled her own on hastily, modeling it for Zagra. ‘Like this.’ She nodded in approval as Zagra stood before her. ‘Come here, now. Let’s put this pouch over your head.’ Mazhg flattened the leather strap that held the rough made pouch across Zagra’s chest. ‘This has a little skin of water in it, some meat and some bread. Now throw your blanket over your shoulders . . . like the boys do.’ Mazhg reached for the ends of the blanket scrap and tied them in a loose knot so that material fell about her sister’s form like a little cape. She handed Zagra her stick, telling her to hold tight to it.

Mazhg quickly got herself ready to go, tucking the knife into a raggedy sort of sash she’d tied about her middle. She picked up her spade, checking one last time in her own pouch for the sharpening stone.
With a quick smile of assurance, Mazhg took her sister’s hand firmly in her own and let her eyes dart about the nearly empty northern part of the camp she’d staked out as their little place. Most of the others who bedded down in that area were at the fires in the southern part of the camp.

The moon was bright on the eastern horizon. Fat and bulbous like some great swollen spider, it hung in the dark sky. Its light ate the little lights of the stars, swallowing whole it seemed those ones that had the ill luck to be near its web.

Hunched over, skittering like dark little bugs from one pool of shadow to another, the two sisters headed west. They hurried as fast as their legs would take them; away from the madness of the coming battle and toward the meeting place the loosely organised group of rebels had agreed on . . .

[piosenniel]

-o- Out of the Caves -o-

Durelin - Khamir


“He said two months, right?”

Khamir sat on a large rock that sat along the stream’s edge and stretched out into the water. The moving current had shaped it and smoothed it after hundreds of years of beating against it. The water merely babbled across the rocky bed, though perhaps at one time it had rushed in the form of a large river. Still the boulder stood strong and unmoving, forcing the current around it. Somehow water always found a way to get through. Khamir had to wonder, watching even such a small current, how the beaver ever managed to build such effective dams. Fire, water, and air – all pushed and shoved until it found a way to get through. For fire, it was perhaps simpler than pushing and shoving, but it still seemed to flow, if considerably faster than any water rushing over stones.

The one-armed man nodded in response to Reagonn’s question. There was a feeling of restlessness throughout the group that could not be ignored. Khamir shared the feeling, even though he expected he minded spending hours out of the day and night in a cave less than most of the others. He was used to caves and sharp, imposing rocks, and trying to sleep on ground or on stone that would never be comfortable, knowing that there was always the chance of being discovered, and forced to rely on whoever was on watch. That was one of many times when a man had trouble trusting anyone.

“We have a decision to make,” he said simply. Leaning forward, he kept his balance so that he remained on the boulder as he dipped his hand into the flowing water. Scooping tiny puddle out, he splashed it on his face. Even the least bit of water did wonders. He poured another small handful of water onto his head, and ran a hand through his thick hair. That was one large thing he would miss when they did head out: the river. They would be hard-pressed for finding water on the journey until the reached the wilderness farther north.

It had been over two months since the King’s letter reached them, informing them that help was on its way. The message had asked the Mordorians to wait two months for help to arrive, and they had sent a message back agreeing. Even if this ‘help’ had not left Gondor until after they received the message from the former slaves, they should have been here by now. Sentiment had been that they were not coming at all from the start. Few felt like really trusting Gondor. It seemed their only hope other than each other, and some rather far off wilderness, was in that country though, in that King.

As a Haradrim, Khamir was raised to have no love for Gondor. But it had been years since the man really thought of himself as a Southron, or as a person with any sort of allegiance. He had severed all ties almost as soon as he was landed in Mordor, and since then, he had buried the remnants of any links. They reminded him too much of chains.

His years as a slave had hardened him, making him callous to all kinds of death and hardships. But, it had softened him as well. It had taken a great deal of his own suffering for him to realize a great many things. Now more than ever, he cherished what good things life had to offer. And he cherished freedom in all its forms. There was no way he could have denied any help he and his men could give to those runaways. And now…they were sixty-five strong, and it seemed they might have a future.

With the help of Gondor, of the seemingly generous Elessar, or not, Khamir would count himself among those who ventured to the northwest. Suddenly rising from where he sat, Reagonn could only watch as the Southron made his way to the small cave opening, and crawled down inside through vegetation that hid the entrance formidably from the outside. The surprisingly large cavern was lit by several torches, numerous side tunnels branching off from the open room that most of the group camped in. He nodded, waved, and said a few words in greeting to those that were gathered inside. They only ever went outside in small numbers, and a sort of unspoken order to things came about in which everyone got a ‘turn,’ whether it meant they were on watch, were gathering water or food, were taking some children outside for fresh air and sunlight, or actually had a short time of rest to themselves. He left the cave with a bag in hand to sling over his left side, so that the bag itself hung at his right hip. Once outside, he pulled several skins out of the sack, and began filling them in the river.

“Tell everyone that who wants to can leave with me in the morning,” he said, turning his head to look at Reagonn while he held one of the waterskins under the flow, “It’s not yet midday. That should give us enough time to prepare.”

Reagonn hesitated, but the darker-skinned man knew that it was not because his comrade was not paying attention. He was similar to Khamir in a good number of ways, one of which being that he was always focused, even when he did not appear to be. The gang leader found him to be a good person to have guarding his back, though different things drove each of them on.

Khamir’s lips twisted slightly in what could only be called a smirk, though anyone who knew him in the least bit, like Reagonn, knew there was only either or kindness or amusement behind it, or both. “Unless you want to stay here, that is.”

[piosenniel]

-o- The Fellowship Arrives in Mordor -o-

Child of the 7th Age


The sun beat down on the weary travellers as they cautiously guided their horses through the rocky foothills of the southern mountains. By all accounts, they were a strange assortment: one Hobbit, an Elf, and a middle-aged Dwarf, plus two younger men and a woman who was apparently a healer. Near the rear of the group rode a tall greybeard with a staff strapped to his saddle and a snowy owl perched firmly on his right shoulder.

They had been journeying over a month. Elessar had seen them off from Harlond, the harbor for Minas Tirith, and they had sailed down the Anduin to Pelargir where horses were provided for their eastward trek. The group had travelled along the Poros River and finally arrived at the tiny pass that crossed over the Ephel Dúath. Getting through the mountain pass had taken longer than expected; they were now five days late in meeting up with the slaves.

Coming onto the flat plain of Nurn, they had headed south to the hills until they sighted a small mountain stream that had a surprisingly large group of trees growing on the bank. The ground was covered with vegetation, bramblewood patches and tangled thickets of shrubs that obscured their clear view of the land. From the description in Elessar's letter, this had to be the location of the caves, the place in the mountains where the slaves of Nurn had promised to meet them.

At the front of the column rode two scouts: Lindir the elf, and the young man Dorran who was a Rider of Rohan. Yet, despite their sharp eyes and ears, they could see no sign of the cave or hear any noises other than the normal babbling of the brook.

"This is it. I am sure....the place described in the letter. But where are they? And where is the entrance to the caves?" Dorran looked over at his companion.

"It has to be here," Lindir replied. "But most likely the slaves would choose a place well hidden from Orc eyes. I expect the caves are partly underground with their entrance concealed by thick shrubs or grass. The slaves may even be hiding inside, thinking that we are intruders. Still.....I wonder. They were supposed to post a sentry who would guide us in."

Dorran mumbled in frustration, "What we need is a dog to pick up their scent, or a small burrowing animal! We'll never find them this way, and night will come in a short time."

At that moment, there was a clip-clop of pony hooves as Carl Cotton rode up behind them and politely interrupted, "Excuse me, sirs. Maybe I can help. I do have experience with small holes in the ground." Carl dismounted and disappeared in the brush. Within five minutes he had returned, one of his sleeves hanging askew, torn by a thornbush, and a puzzled expression spreading over his face.

"I think I've found it. The cave is sunk into the ground just as you said...very cleverly hidden. Only.....something seems very wrong."

The hobbit turned and beckoned to the others to get off their horses and follow him into the thicket and over to the entrance of the cave.

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~


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~*~ Pio