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

[Tevildo]

Guiding Athwen over to a quieter spot, Dorran pecked her lightly on the cheek and gently laughted. It was the second question to which he responded, "Spoken like a healer. Always worrying about folk under your care, even if one of them happens to be your husband. You know me. I'll be fine. Anyways, the past is done and buried. What we have to worry about is the slaves."

"I wish we had a seeing stone to tell us what's going on. But since that's unlikely, we'll just have to wait till we catch them on the trail. At least we know the direction they're heading. And their numbers are in their favor. The slavers work in small bands. They're used to dealing with four or five escapees at most. Hopefully, even if they manage to find the slaves, they'll be scared off by the size of the group."

"Come on now." Dorran added with a wave of his hand. "Let's get back to the others. Maybe someone will have some ideas. Plus, the sun should be setting in an hour or so; I'm not sure whether we'll decide to push on or settle for the night."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Makdush stormed over to Ishkur and jerked him roughly to one side, cursing him in a low, gruff voice. "Fawning fen-snouted boar-pig! Are you mad? The dogs from camp will still be on our trail. Stay here and you risk getting your throat slit while you sleep."

"Anyways," grumbled Makdush, "what's wrong with a little sunlight? Ishkur, you're so lazy and incompetent that you'll use any excuse to stop working. I thought you orcs would learn once we'd gotten out of camp. But you haven't. You're still a pack of worthless cowards."

"All right, Ishkur. Get everyone on their feet. Drag the women back. Everyone on the trail now! Put some muscle into it. We can be fifty miles north of here before we make our camp."

Makdush turned and glared menacingly at the rest of the group, but few showed any signs of moving.....

_______________
Nogrod's post for Gwerr

After Ishkur had called for the group to halt, Gwerr turned to Colagar, intending to haul him over the coals for his plan once more. But then they both saw Makdush rushing to Ishkur and challenging the call for rest. They didn’t hear the heated exchange of words exactly, but the main idea was clear. The Uruk accused Ishkur and the other orcs of being lazy and incompetent. “That did it!” Gwerr yelled and grasped Colagar by the arm. “C’mon! We have some things to settle with that bully of a toddler!”

With that he ran to the quarrelling pair, calling for Zuhut and Griwzan whom he passed to join them as he went.

“Have you lost your marbles, Makdush?” Gwerr shouted to the Uruk from a couple of yards away. Colagar, Zuhut and Griwzan were tailing him. The Uruk turned to gaze at the smallish but sturdy orc. They knew each other well enough to mutually dislike each other. Gwerr took instinctively a grip from the handle of his axe and continued.

“When we were fighting at Angband you were not even conceived of! What do you think you are, you lousy maggot of a mere wizard? This is our party and I don’t have the faintest what are you doing here. But if you are to stay with us with your ruffian friends, you just shut your newborn mouth that only coos and babbles nonsense.” Gwerr had gotten really angry, inflamed by his own words. The veins in his temple swelled when he tried to cool himself down.

“Take shelter everyone! We rest now!” He called loudly to the other orcs not involved in the quarrel. But all the females were already out of the sight, taking shelter wherever the sun couldn’t extend its rays.

“You see. We rest now. You sun-lovers may run as long as you wish to.” Gwerr added in a lower tone, looking at Makdush challengingly but being somewhat calmed down already. Still he held a firm grip of his axe, and Ishkur, Colagar, Zuhut and Griwzan had all taken a hold of their weapons too. The last two male orcs had also finally realised the situation and were walking firmly towards the center of the dispute.

Makdush glanced at his fellow Uruks and nodded lightly to them, and then took a few steps back.

[Undómë]

Zagra and Mazhg


The one called Ishkur had yelled out. ‘Stop the group. The sun is coming soon and the bad light will burn our eyes. Now we must set up camp and sleep. We cannot continue anymore tonight.’

Mazhg had pulled her sister aside quickly, holding Zagra’s hand tightly as she made her way to a little rise she’d spied - one with a few rocks that would afford them some shelter…and some small measure of safety, she hoped. They burrowed in beneath the overhanging rocky ledge; Mazhg pushing Zagra in first, saying she would keep watch. ‘And not for any who might be chasing them,’ she thought to herself. ‘Sha! Lazy dumb dogs, the lot of them. Now that no one drove them on with whips of fire and threats of lash and club, they would easily turn back. Easier to stay put, talk big, and thump those close by with hand and club.’ No, her eyes would be watching for any of the males in this group who came too near the little space she and Zagra had laid claimed for the day.

It was her hope that once the group had gotten to a place that seemed safe to settle in, she and Zagra could strike out to find a place of their own. Until then they would take what advantage there was in numbers to keep themselves safe from any challengers, any foe, who might seek to bar their way.

Mazhg flicked her gaze about the others in the group, watching where they were settling down. One of the bigger males, an Uruk, seemed to be challenging Ishkur. The two sisters were far enough away they could not hear what passed between the two. And truth be told, Mazhg did not care, either. They could have all the words they wished, even draw blood from one another…as long as they kept their distance from her and Zagra.

Her eyes tracked the two other women, wondering if they felt any need to make themselves secure from the males. She tugged at her tunic, hoping her and her sister’s boyish masquerade had not been seen through.

Turning her attention back to her sister, Mazhg rolled up her own raggedy cape, making a pillow for Zagra. She adjusted Zagra’s cape over her sister’s reclining form, tucking it about her like a blanket. A piece of dried meat and a small, hard biscuit made for the evening meal. All washed down with a few swallows of water from one of their waterskins. ‘Go to sleep now, little beetle,’ she whispered, rubbing her sister’s cheek.

The long, bright-hot fingers of old yellow face were feeling their way across the plain. Mazhg snorted, looking on with a sneer at the majority of the men as their faces reflected their fears of the rising sun and their gripping need to hide themselves away from its bright light.

Zagra and she had been made to work in what passed for fields…tubers of all sorts they’d cultivated, weeded the hot peppers, harvested the bitter-root and onions that seemed the mainstay for Orc cooking. And any fool knew goats wanted to wander around in the day light and sleep when the moon was up, the sky dark, as for that matter did chickens…

She settled in, chewing on a stick of dried meat. In a few days the supply she’d managed to get would run low. From one of her pockets she pulled out a ratty looking ball of twine, little pieces knotted together from bits and pieces of string and thin leather thongs that others had thrown away. With her fingers, she began to weave a small net; good enough to catch lizards or unsuspecting birds…..

[Durelin]

Vrór

Hearing the Elf question some of the group about footprints, Vrór crawled up from out of the cave, huffing and puffing. He rather regretted climbing in there, but he just had to see such a thing with his own two eyes. A good bit of wasted energy was all he felt he had managed. The others didn’t seem much interested in what he had to say about the cavern. They should know that they should only trust a Dwarf when it come to rock and stone. They should, though Vrór wouldn’t be surprised if he was the first Dwarf some of these people had ever come across. His people weren’t always the most social type, and considering the young couple was from Rohan, and the Hobbit was…well, just a Hobbit, it was likely that they at least had never spent much time with a Dwarf.

Brushing spare brown, crusty leaves and a few tiny thorns from him, he looked around for the Elf. He wasn’t going to be left out of a discovery. His hopes rose a bit as he thought of what this talk of footprints might mean. Perhaps there were more signs. What he wanted very badly was some kind of sign that the slaves left the caves of their own free will, and were headed in a direction that was not back to the plantations they had escaped from.

A few voices from over a small hill could still be heard over the babbling of the nearby creek, but Vrór could not make out any words. Carl still stood near the cave entrance, having managed to clean himself up a bit after his own venture down into the cavern. The Dwarf glanced at him.

“Have any idea what the Elf’s found, Master Carl?” he asked the Hobbit with an air of polite curiosity. If there was one thing from his childhood that Vrór rarely forgot, it was the manners that had been ‘beaten into him.’ The only times he didn’t remember them was when it was convenient.

Vrór found it a bit difficult to stand still, and he began to rock back and forth slightly on his heels. Maybe the slaves had even left a sign for them, to let the Fellowship know where they went? Or perhaps these were tracks that showed they had already begun the journey north? Or…what if these were not even tracks from the slaves at all? What if this was the wrong place? The Dwarf felt that was pretty near impossible, but then, he did not know the topography of Mordor very well, nor did he think anyone else in the party did.

But that was nowhere near the worst possibility. Vrór doubted that he would ever be able to forgive himself him if the slaves had been recaptured, or killed. If they were indeed dead or back in the hands of their former masters, then this Fellowship had already failed. His mind could not give up on the idea that all sixty-five of them were dead. It was Mordor. To him, such a slaughter was just the sort of thing that would happen in such a land. An evil had dwelt in this place far too long.

“Perhaps we should see for ourselves,” Carl responded, and the two made their way over the hill. When Vrór saw the couple, Dorran and Athwen, off away from Lindir, the Dwarf glanced at the Hobbit, and made his way over to the Elf. Looking up at the tall, pointy-eared fellow, he hesitated for a moment, seemingly clearing his throat.

“What have we found?” Vrór asked simply, keeping his voice low, not wishing to bother Dorran and his wife. He nervously stroked his beard, and eyed the stream, avoiding the Elf’s gaze.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

They halted for a meal in the middle of the plains. Hadith took his part of yesterday’s leftovers distributed to everyone - roasted deer accompanied with water - and chewed them hastily. He had to find this Johari again. He was already gnawing the bones of his share when he realised feeling still hungry. He was alarmed by a sudden thought. Where will we find food for all of us tomorrow, the day after that, or the day after that? There were birds around today, no other animals or eatable plants on our path. He paused chewing, taken by his thoughts. Well, the old stagers will know the answers... I’ll just have to find that Johari now.

His mind had been bursting with questions ever since they had talked earlier on the day and he was eager for some answers. If someone can answer these, she can... Hadith thought to himself optimistically. He would ask her.

He found her soon enough. Johari hadn’t yet finished her meal and was chewing her share of the day’s ratios at a tranquil pace. He approached her carefully, coughing gently to gain her attention. “The ‘worthy’ one? What do you want?” she asked sarcastically, swallowing the bite she had been chewing.

“Well... erm... I mean...”, Hadith was not quite sure how to address the woman. After all, what he wanted to ask was a bit embarrassing.

“C’mon, speak up lad or get lost” Johari broke in, taking a long draught of water and settling herself to a more comfortable position.

“We discussed today. And after it I have spent lot of time wondering some things I think you could answer me” he managed to say, not knowing where to look or where to put his hands. There was something in that woman that made him interested in her but also very nervous. She seemed not to be like most others he knew.

Johari took another bite of the meat and chewed it slowly, taking her time. Hadith was almost ready to turn away as she suddenly answered, still masticating the last bits: “Fine. Talk.”

Hadith closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He tried to shun her gaze as he went on. “Well, I don’t know if I even know myself what I’m asking, but I thought that you could help me with it.” He kicked a stone from the ground and fumbled nervously with his fingers. Johari didn’t answer but gave him a look that he could interpret easily enough. Speak or go, it said to him. Hadith gathered all his mental strength and got on with it.

“I mean, if something is broken you just fix it. And if it fixes, that’s right then. Or if you have a problem, like getting bricks to a 15 feet high platform in a construction site, you just make a winch and pull them up with a rope. And that’s right.” He draw breath and tried to concentrate, fiddling the cords of his newly gotten blade’s sheath with his fingers. “So if you solve a problem, then it’s right.” He managed to utter after a short pause. Johari was looking at him more intently now, with a quizzical expression.

“But after we talked today, I started thinking that maybe all solutions are not right even though they work or make sense.” He paused again for a while, just trying to word his confusion. “But that doesn’t make any sense either!” He was clearly baffled by his own reasoning and indeed started feeling ashamed bringing up the whole matter. He looked down towards his own boots and tried to have a glance for Johari’s expression.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

“What have we found?” Vrór asked Lindir in low tones. Carl watched as the elf extended his hand to give the weighty object over to the dwarf, who in turn stopped smoothing his beard only just long enough to accept it. To be honest, the hobbit felt that he appeared to be avoiding the elf’s glance. “I bit of iron work, I see. And a rough one at that!” Vrór said, looking it over with a critical eye. “It has been well kept though, and oiled frequently. Rust has found no foothold, so it couldn’t have lain long.”

“May I see it?” Carl asked as he strained, peering along his nose to snatch a glimpse at it. Vrór obliged him, and Carl saw that it appeared to be a branding iron of sorts, seemly out of place on these mountain slopes. The lack of both shepherds and flocks hadn’t escaped the hobbit’s notice since arriving in Mordor. He had simply put the absence down to the likely presence of orcs in the mountains, and so had slept a little less soundly than usual --the puzzle manifesting itself in the form of the goats that featured often in his dreams. Not actually appearing, for it was only their bleating he heard in the distance. He had thought no more of it, until now.

“A branding iron?” Carl said. “How strange to find one, miles from flock or fold!”

“It is not for animals, but for slaves,” the elf spoke gravely.

“You don’t suppose the slaves would have taken such a thing with them when they left?” Carl asked hopefully, but seeing Rôg shake his head almost imperceptibly, the hobbit's thoughts grew somber. He remembered the words of the Gondorian farmer so many weeks ago. “Those slaves could have been anyone of us,” he said with a shudder, giving voice to the memory. “You don’t suppose that they have been found, now do you? It’s far too clean here for there to have been much of a fight,” he said thinking aloud, as he handed the brand back to Lindir. “But maybe they are they being followed, eh? And if that is the case, we had better move more quick like, don’t you think? Keep those dirty wolves from attacking them!"

“Yes, but how many wolves, and which direction did they go?” Lindir said.

“My guess is that they didn’t go deeper into the mountains, there’d be no point to that, no good land that way and there’s too many orcs in the mountains,” Carl said as he wandered off. He was desperate to make himself useful, searching the brush for any token that would tell of the folk who had sent the letter. Walking carefully in amongst the thorn bushes and grasses, he combed through them searching for cloth or perhaps a wisp of hair among the grasping barbs. It was all he could think to do. True, Lindir had discovered this something that spoke of the slaves, but it certainly wasn’t the sort of find that they had been hoping for.

[Folwren]

Kwell had not been knocked senseless when Imak had clubbed him, but he did lay still. His hand pressed against his head and he felt the blood trickle slowly between his fingers and course down his arm before it was soaked up into the dirty fabric of his sleeve. Through clenched teeth, he uttered horrible imprecations against both his back luck and the rider of the horse.

More than anything, he wanted to continue to fight. He dwelt on those scarce seconds of struggle, but found it impossible now to continue. His head buzzed and rang and the world spun around him every time he tried to move. The bouncing jolt of the horse made everything worse. The splitting head ache was getting worse every step and at the same time, his confusion and questions were rising.

Kwell thought he knew who these men were, but he wondered how they had ever found them. After weeks of hiding in the caves and not finding any sign of being tracked, followed, or discovered, it had seem reasonable to hope that they would never have been found. Of course, though, this would be just their luck. He ground his teeth in vexation and pain. Oh, great - now there were tears.

Angry with himself and his weakness, Kwell moved his hand away from his bleeding head. He braced it against the moving shoulder of the running horse and tried to push himself up. He would do his best to cause as much grievance as possible.

A hand grabbed the back of his neck and pushed him back down. The grip was strong as iron and hurt. Kwell winced and his hand flew to the man’s hand to try to push it away.

“Stay where you’re put, boy, and it’ll be better for you,” his captor growled. “No reason to make it worse for yourself.” It entered Kwell’s mind to obey and remain still – even to tell the man he would, so long as he let him go. The next moment he shut such thoughts out of his mind completely, once more clenching his jaw and causing his teeth to grind against each other. He would make no agreement, he would admit no defeat, and he would certainly not obey. But he found to disobey was impossible now. The hand did not move, and his head pounded as though all of his blood were trying to get there all at once. He grew dizzier at every passing moment and the rushing images in the dim world of night confused him even farther.

How long would this last, he wondered? And what would happen when it was over?

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Hadith was walking as an advanced guard as the plains transformed suddenly to a sparse thicket and then a forest appeared from nowhere. He took his long-knife and continued, hacking the vegetation down as he proceeded, even as others were calling him to come back in fear. Someone would have to do this and I will surely show them that I can brave it! The wood thickened with every step and the air grew damper. He was sweating. It was getting darker too, even though it was still daylight hours. But then in a flash, he was in the middle of the night, armed with just his self-made knife that was no good at all. He heard his heart bumbing ever faster. There was a howl of the wolves, loud and clear! They were coming towards him from a wide sector from before him. He didn’t know where to focus his attention as they seemed to come from both left and right and from straight ahead...

“Beloan!” he called the older man to his help in his sleep with all his might, just to realise that a great hound leapt over him and that he had become entangled with his blanket. He was more than awake now. The dogs were rushing over them, one was gripping a young girl from her side with its teeth just a few yards away from him. The girl yelled in pain. He managed to free himself from the sweaty blanket and tried to disentangle the cords of his long-knife, but as it was dark and he was nervous, it took its time. Meanwhile he heard the girl’s initial yell dying into a merely quiet moaning with occasional shrieks. How frustrated can you get!? Everything seemed to be on the move around him: shouts, cries, rushing footsteps...

And then came the riders. He could hear the earth responding to the hooves of the horses, shaking it under his butt. Blasted cords!

In the end he managed to release his blade and to stand up. A rider was just coming towards him with his sword ready for any target of opportunity. Without thinking, by pure instinct, Hadith docked down and evaded the rider unharmed. A long-knife against a swordsman on a horse. He had done well to yield. Now where is the girl who yelled? he thought to himself as he crawled up. He immediately noticed where. Her body lied motionless just three feet from him and the great easterling hound was looking at him, it’s muzzle smeared in blood. It gazed him with its ears and tail put back. In a fraction of a second it was on him.

Hadith had had time to just lift the blade towards it to defend himself as the dog came over him with all it’s mass. Hadith felt a strike of claws on his left shoulder and right forehead but managed to control the pain. The dog’s fangs missed him. It howled in anguish. Something warm spluttered over him as the dog’s weight overpowered him and sent him falling to his back. He got some bruises to his thighs from the claws of the dying dog that tackled him and his back ached from the fall. Hadith fastly pushed the still trembling body of the hound away and ran over to see the girl. She was dead. Or so it seemed.

Dratted cords! He was breathing heavily and full of excitement, smeared in the dog’s blood, dripping his own to mix with it from his forehead and shoulder. But he was quite ready to go on, his wounds were not bad enough. It was just that there were no targets for him to reach at sight. The riders were creating havoc too far away and even the dogs had disappeared to the darkness of the night – even though their sudden barks made an indication where they were. They were too far away from Hadith. All was chaos, and blood kept dripping from his forehead into his eye. He tried to sweep it away but it always came back.

Then he heard the riders thundering back, the dogs coming in front of them with their heavy panting. The rumble of the hooves were as scary this time, but now Hadith had time to prepare himself for it. The dogs emerged first from the darkness to his field of vision. Not one coming straight to him but passing him by a couple of yards. But then he saw the rider. Fully clad in armour, a real soldier to Hadith’s eyes, and he was just coming towards him, noticing him. He's got a lance! A drop of blood blinded his right eye. Happily the easterling also noticed Hadith at the last possible moment.

Hadith just dived again, escaping just narrowly the tip of the lance. After he had rolled around on the ground to evade the spear, he got a whim he didn’t exactly know where it came. Hadith threw his blade to the easterling’s back as he passed him and the Easterling fell to the ground. Before he could come to his feet he saw other slaves coming from all around, from nowhere where they had been hiding, hacking the fallen Easterling with anything they got: clubs, pans, sticks...

One of them, Fewerth, claimed Hadith’s blade to himself as the Easterling was killed, but Hadith had been strong enough to rise up and meet the ring of slaves around the mutilated body of the Easterling. His shoulder and forehead were still running with blood, even more than before. Seeing his wounds, most of the other slaves withdrew, leaving Hadith and Fewerth looking each other in the eye over the body of the Easterling that had been clubbed into a cruel death. Hadith knew Fewerth well enough. He was a thirty something, some fifteen years older than he was; one of those who never took risks but were always ready to take advantages from the risks others had taken.

“Hadith, you little brat! What are you doing here? This is my blade! Get off here! I gave this foul mongrel the initial blow!” Fewerth called with a loud voice, trying to assure the others of his claim. Hadith tried to argue back but was losing blood too rapidly to counter his argument with any strengtht.

“No! That blade is mine, given to me by Khamir himself!” Hadith managed to answer before he fell down to his knees. Fewerth grasped the long-knife from the body and took it with him. Many of the other slaves rushed to help Hadith who was tumbling down, while a few others stood by trying not to involve themselves with the case at hand.

“You see! Who would give a weapon to a kid like that who can’t even stand blood? I killed this guy!” Fewerth bellowed before disappearing to the shadows of the overall disarray.

“That’s mine! He failed the tests! He’s lying!” Hadith managed to call before he almost passed out. Happily Khala and Cuáran were near enough. They helped the couple of other slaves to bind his wounds and managed to put Hadith in to an upright position, waking him up with some water to come conscious of the familiar voices. “Khala? Cuáran?” he came to his senses gradually again. “Fewerth took the blade that was given to me! I tried my best!”

“Cool down child, everything’s going to be put right” Khala said, not herself believing a part of what she said in the middle of the havoc they were into, trying to soothe the young boy. But the voices of the horses and the cries were getting more distant with every minute.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil walked over to the edge of the brook and, with great purposeful strides, splashed through the water to the other side where a large stretch of grass was slightly matted. Only a few days ago, sixty-five hungry and desperate people had crossed over at this exact point probably heading north. This is what the slaves had told Elessar in the letter, and from the look of the land, they had honored that promise.

Aiwendil partially blamed himself for the dillema they were in now. Too many times on the trek, he had asked Lindir to slow down and give him a chance to rest. Too many mornings he had been chasing after strange migratory birds only to delay the entire group from leaving for the day. If only he had not had his wooly head in the clouds, if only he'd done what he was supposed to do......

But "if onlys" did not correct their present situation. What made it even worse was what the slaves must now think of Ellessar and the free men of the West. Most of the slaves were from the south and east, but they had freely extended a hand, requesting help and seeking friendship. Only neither of those things had arrived on time.

What must the slaves have thought when the fellowship did not materialize? That the group from Gondor was late because it had encountered some troubles on the trail? Not likely, the wizard conceded with a sigh. With a trail of failed promises behind them, the slaves must have believed that they had been purposely deserted, like so many times before.

Aiwendil gave a shudder and groaned. This was just the kind of thing he had been hoping to avoid. Ever since his trip to Harad and the strange events he'd battled through with Rôg, the istar had sworn to pay closer attention to creatures in need, human as well as animal. He had promised to pay careful heed to what he was doing and not merely to count the days until Yavanna allowed him to return home. Most of all, he had sworn to try and remember the task that Manwe had laid on his head just before he'd left for Middle-earth. Aiwendil still couldn't remember exactly what that task was, but he was sure it had something to do with Mordor. And failing these slaves was not a good way to begin.

Aiwendil shuddered again as he remember the cold, cruel brand that he had held only a few moments before. He'd said nothing to the others, but the metal itself had practically burned his hand and almost caused him to wretch. He hated when such things were used on beasts. How much worse was it then to use a brand on a man? If the slaves were recaptured, that and even worse would shortly await them.

And it wasn't only the slaves who were calling out to him. It was the very earth itself: sterile and abused, even in the great agricultural plantations that ringed about the Sea. And how much worse the abuse of the land had been on the Ash Plains and the distant Plateau of Gorgoroth!

It was amazing that the slaves of Nurn could grow anything at all, given their miserable, destructive methods of farming. Land like this should be able to yield a bountiful supply of crops without requiring the labor of massive slave gangs. But the slaves continue to do as their masters ordered, and the land continued to fade. It was a horrible cycle that needed to be broken. What we really need, mused the wizard, is a whole army of hobbits to help restore life to the land.

Aiwendil's reflections were suddenly broken by the trill of a small bird who bobbed down on his shoulder and then came and perched on his fingertips. It was a warbler , the rare brave bird who thrives on scrub and in the vicinity of volcanos, a perfect resident for the land of Mordor. The bird tilted his head and began to speak with Aiwendil. The speaking came not in words but a series of images flitting across the wizard's mind. What he saw was appalling, much worse than the smallish slave band that Dorran had described. The istar spluttered out his thanks to the bird before releasing him back into the air.

Turning and sprinting back up the slope much faster than he'd come down before, Aiwendil halted abruptly in front of Lindir. Athwen and Carl were off looking for more signs of the slaves, but a number of the party were standing and talking with each other. Without waiting for an opening in the conversation, Aiwendil blurted out his news, "I've seen them, or rather the warbler has."

"Seen who? the slaves?," one voice demanded.

"No, no. Not the slaves," Aiwendil curtly replied. "The bounty hunters. There's twenty-five or thirty men armed to the hilt, excellent fighters all, gathered about thirty miles north of here. I don't know if they've found the slaves, but I do know they are out hunting for bodies that they intend to take back and peddle for gold. If they haven't found the slaves already, they'll surely be hunting for them tomorrow."

Aiwendil grabbed Lindir's soldier and shook it gently, stamping his staff on the ground for emphasis. "We can't make camp. We can't wait. As soon as Athwen and Carl finish going over the grounds to see if there are any more clues, we've got to mount up and ride through the night. We have to reach the slaves before that gang of thugs and miscreants do, or I fear there'll be no one left."

[Folwren]

“Yes, but how many wolves, and which direction did they go?” Lindir asked no one in particular.

Athwen and Dorran had heard the last several exchanges. Carl began to talk, half to himself, and half to his companions, as he wandered off in search of some way to follow them. Athwen couldn’t help smile after him momentarily. Regardless of how astonished he would be if she ever voiced her opinion, Athwen couldn’t get it out of her mind that hobbits were absolutely adorable and it was a very difficult thing to take him seriously. She stifled a chuckle at his eager attempt to be useful, and turned to the others.

“Dorran just told me that the slavers don’t move in large groups,” she said. “And if there are a lot of slaves, perhaps they won’t attack them immediately. If that’s the case, we may have a chance to catch up. Carl’s right, though, we do need to hurry. And he is also probably right and they wouldn’t go into the mountains.”

She stopped a moment to think. In her opinion, as they had already searched for tracks and found none except for those that Lindir had found, they should waste no more time looking, but continue riding in the most likely direction. However, she knew next to nothing of these matters and so she kept her mouth shut. They didn’t need a woman telling them what she thought would be best and what wouldn’t – much less a woman know didn’t know what she was talking about.

So, instead of continuing to talk, she left the planning to those who knew more about it, and followed Carl. She caught up to him as he peered and poked through the dry plants.

“Tell me what you think you might find and I’ll help you look,” she said.

[Tevildo]

Azhar had staked out a small plot to call her own, a good distance from her nearest neighbor. The young girl could not stand being hedged in between so many tightly packed bodies. Tired of hearing her neighbors snore, she had gotten up and walked to the edge of camp where very few were sleeping. Finding what looked like a comfortable place, she had lain down again and curled her body into a tiny ball. Yet even here, she could feel the sharp edge of every twig and pebble that lay beneath the grass. Even removed from the snores and grunts of the others, Azhar found it impossible to sleep. She tossed restlessly from one side to the other.

Today had not been easy. Her own life on the plantation had been comparatively soft. Azhar had hauled buckets of water and delivered messages, but she had not been forced to do any backbreaking tasks. Moreover, unlike the mass of field slaves who had only the crudest of shelters, she was allowed to bed down in a pile of soft hay within a sturdy building where the horses were stabled. That way, she was close by when the overseers wanted an errand run. The young slave had managed to beg or steal enough food to keep her belly full and had a decent pair of shoes to wear. A few of the Easterling guards had been fond of her. They had liked her pretty face and been taken with her cheerful chatter. One of them had even gifted her with an agate on a leather thong to string about her neck, making her promise that in a year or two she would come back to visit him in the barracks. Still young and innocent, she had laughed and given her promise.

Out on the trail, things were a lot different. There was no privileged status here. She ate and drank and slept exactly like everyone else. Azhar wasn't used to that. Her body ached from too many miles walked, and her stomach growled incessently with hunger. Once today, during the long and miserable trek, she had even wondered if it might not have been better to stay back on the plantation rather than running off after a wild dream that was unlikely to come true.

But it was too late for second thoughts. Like it or not, she was stuck here. Maybe, if she was lucky, things would get better. She glanced over at her nearest neighbor who lay several feet away. His outline was shadowy and barely visible in the dark. It looked to be Kwell, a boy about her own age, but one who seemed as hard and silent as any rock. Perhaps she just didn't belong here. Sighing and feeling very alone, Azhar gathered the few scraps of her blanket tightly about her body and willed herself to sleep.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Two men sat on the hillside, eagerly peering down on the encampment of slaves. They were dressed in the garb of Easterlings. It was clear from their clothes and weapons that they were neither poor slaves, nor rich landowners. Rather, they were traders--traders in human flesh--who captured slaves and other lost remnents of humanity, dragging these unfortunates back to the planations for which they earned a rich reward.

The younger one spoke first. "Look at them. So many! I wish we'd brought along another twenty men. There's money here for the taking.'" The slaver Nimag squatted behind one of the larger boulders on the hillside, greedily rubbing his hands in anticipation of the gold and silver coins that would fall into his pocket, if only the men could bag a rich prize like this.

"Hold on," growled Imak, leaning over and smacking the younger man on the back of the head. "I'm in charge here. Keep your stinking mouth shut. I say when and where we go. You're a fool if you think seven men can go against a pack of over sixty. We'll end up with our throats slit, and little good to show for it."

Imak sat back on his heels, thought a minute, and then barked out orders to one of the riders who'd just approached them from over the hill. "Take the dog pack with you. Have four of the men attack the far side of camp." Imak indicated the direction with a hasty jerk of his thumb. " Just go and create a ruckus. Maybe slit a throat or two, or make off with some belongings. Make sure to take that idiot Nimag with you. Just get him out of my sight. Anyways," he added somewhat apologetically, "you'll have no trouble getting away on horseback."

"While that uproar is going on, I'll take the other men and nab two or three slaves. There's easy pickings down there. These fools have hardly any weapons and don't even know how to guard a camp. We'll take the captives back with us. Once we show the others, they'll come and clean out the rest of this vermin. We'll need the whole gang of thirty men to do that right. After all, we don't want to have to kill too many."

The rider looked up warily. "But, sir, why let them know we're here? Just go back now and get the others, and then take them all at once by surprise."

"Wait and do nothing? Nah." Imak grimaced and shook his head. "You don't know these thugs like I do. No good bounty hunter will go for the kill unless you show him some of the loot. If I come back with some cock and bull story, and not a slave to show for my efforts, they won't believe me. The men will only come if they see fresh meat up for sale, and they know I'm not just giving them a tale."

"But the guards? Aren't there guards on duty?"

"Nay," Imak laughed. "Just look over there where our men would come out. They've got a stupid young fool who's asleep." The Easterling's voice was full of disdain. He could not stand incompetence, whether in his own men or others.

*****************

It did not take long to carry out the plan. The dogs went howling into camp from the north side where the young guard had fallen asleep. The men were mounted on horses immediately behind them. Within seconds, the slaves in the camp had been jerked out of their sleep. Some raced over with clubs and makeshift swords to try and combat the threat; a large number, terrified and weaponless, merely attempted to run away. Everywhere there was noise and chaos.

At the same time, Imak and his chosen friends had quietly slipped in on the opposite side of camp. These men didn't have to ride very far to find what they were looking for. A young girl, about twelve, a pretty face, seemingly of eastern origin; plus a boy about the same age, hard and scarred, obviously used to working in the fields; both stood directly in their path. Imak reached over and scooped up the girl, hoisting her up onto his saddle. She was too frightened to resist. With the boy it was different. The slave hit and clawed and kicked, but in the end Imak gave a swift club to the side of his head and got him to quiet down that way. Within a space of a few minutes, the entire gang had finished their job and turned their horses around, intending to head back towards the Ash Plains where the larger band of thugs awaited.

[Undómë]

Brenna

If you see the Moon at the end of the day
A bright Full Moon is on its way
If you see the Moon in the early dawn
Look quick, look quick...t’will soon be gone.

The night was warm, no fires were needed. Not for the warmth, that is. Though, the light would have been more than welcome here in this unknown land. Brenna folded her tattered shawl into a little cushion and lowered herself onto it. The small thickness of it cushioned her thin hips against the hardness of the rock she sat on. She took off her right sandal and rubbed at the ball of her foot. A stray rock had lodged there in the last mile or so of their trek that day; a tenacious and unwelcome hitchhiker despite her attempts to shake it from her sandal as they walked along.

‘Going to have a blister, old woman,’ she admonished herself. She moistened the hem of her skirt with a little spit and cleaned the area as best she could. Tomorrow before they started off again, she would wrap a strip of cloth about her foot to cushion it against the assault of the new day.

She put her hands behind her and leaned back on her arms, looking toward the waxing moon. She fingered the small hand scythe she’d laid on the ground by her side. The swollen crescent of metal echoed the shape of the bright moon. May you mow down those who would hinder our way she whispered into the night air.

Her bones, her muscles were tired, aching from the long day of walking. The older she got, though, the less easy it was just to lie down and rest her body, to sleep. Her mind was wide awake, and would be she knew until the wee hours of the night. It was then that sleep would find her for the few short hours she needed.

She lay down on her back after while and traced the stars in the dark bowl of sky above her. Somewhere, she knew, her brothers were sleeping beneath the very same moon and stars…or perhaps, as she liked best to think, they were awake, thinking about her as well.

------------

The sharp, insistent sound of the dogs drew her attention. She leveraged herself up from her resting place and saw the invaders as they entered the sleeping camp from the north. Panic and confusion blossomed about them as the sleeping men roused up to fight in their meager fashion while others of the group simply ran from the invaders as fast as their feet would carry them.

Brenna grabbed up her scythe, thinking to wake those on this side of the camp, to get them out of harm’s way before the invaders made their way to them. Before she could utter a word, a number of men on horses entered quietly in from her side of the camp; ten fell riders. A young boy was taken, clubbed senseless so that he lay limp across the horse in front of his abductor as if he were a sack of flour. And a thin girl, very young was hoisted up in like manner, though she was weaker and needed no persuasive beating to make her be still.

Oblivious to the pain in her foot, Brenna rose up and ran at the riders before they turned and headed out of camp. If only she could pull one or the other or better yet, both, of those children away from the abductors. The riders were too strong for her; their horses too quick as they turned away from her.

She took a quick, hard swipe at one of them, slicing along the back of his exposed leg as his horse leapt forward, toward the north. Another of those with the man hit out at her with his club, knocking her hard on the shoulder. Brenna fell, a cry of anger and frustration flung after the riders.

[Firefoot]

Johari scowled and rolled her eyes in frustration with the whole group of them. Did none of them see the obvious problems that this incident had brought to light? Or did they simply choose to ignore them? Either way, Johari decided, they were fools. This situation could not be allowed to continue as it was.

“I do not care,” she began loudly to draw attention, “whether we go after the children or not. But I do care about what happens when those beasts of slavers come back after us. It ultimately will not matter how far away we have gotten or how fast we get there; a group this size will certainly leave tracks, and they are on horseback. And they will come after us, probably with even more people; look at us! We are a huge group – to them we must look a feast,” she said, spitting the words out. “And what will happen then? They will take even more of us captive, and it won’t even matter how well our guards watch because they will still be able to take us by force. How many of us are there? Sixty-something? And how many of us have weapons? Twenty? Twenty-five? Maybe thirty? Less than half! Closer to a third. And once they come back with more people, not to mention their dogs, we don’t stand a chance! Too many of us have no way of defending ourselves besides with our fists and fingernails – small compensation against mounted warriors and blood-thirsty dogs.

“The problem is not that we have lost two children tonight. The problem is that we are not changing anything. I have put up with the organization of this camp until now, but obviously it will not work. You cannot continue to treat all of us as children to be looked after. And I want to know what you propose to do about it.”

There! See how he and the rest of his high-and-mighties handle that.

[Novnarwen]

The camp was in chaos, in utter confusion. It was a rather strange scene, Eirnar admitted; all around, people were running like ants, either withdrawing to a 'safe' place or gathering in the centre of the camp. At first, the Gondorian had refused to believe what had happened; Two children, kidnapped? How? It didn't take long before last night's thoughts came to him again, and a rage he was unfamiliar with took him. "Quickly! We must follow their trail! Khamir, we cannot just stand here! We must do something!" he had cried out, only to find Khamir standing close by. Soon after, the mad-woman Aedhild had come, springing forwards, her eyes wild with excitement, screaming 'traitor;' though the minute Khamir had grabbed her by the arm, she had fallen silent and her eyes went glossy once more. Eirnar didn't know whether the woman was referring to Khamir or anyone else, but perhaps she was not the mad-woman they suspected her of being after all. If she spoke the truth or not, he probably would never know, but after tonight, he would certainly watch her moves more closely.

Strange and unexpected events seemed to have become normal. A woman named Johari had suddenly made her voice heard, speaking very freely of what she thought of tonight's events and a possible reaction. Eirnar’s first response to what she had to say was of reproach; he didn't approve of her words in the slightest. So, she didn't care whether they went after their children or not? She seemed to take much for granted that woman. This decision could determine the fate of all of them; if they went to rescue the children, they could risk bumping into a much larger band of bandits, and they would surely be killed. A gang of hungry and thirsty slaves, not to mention exhausted slaves, could not fight and win. It would be impossible. If they chose to sacrifice the youngsters, and leave the camp now, they could make it. However, this too, could fail. If the bandits chose to follow them, the slaves would be forced to pick up the pace, and ultimately, the bandits would tire them out and strike, vulnerable as they would be. Their ruin would be a fact; they could forget about their freedom, their hopes and dreams. No, this decision was too important for anyone not to care.

He wanted to interrupt, to make her stop; a fierce tongue was all she appeared to have, but then she did seem to have a strong opinion after all. Whether she really cared or not, Eirnar couldn't possibly tell for sure, but her words seemed to bend into a direction he hadn't expected from her opening lines. Letting his gaze wander, he watched some of the others, their eyes fixed at the woman. Sure, she had charisma and she governed her facial expressions so that they seemed pleasant, passionate and sincere.

"You cannot continue to treat all of us as children to be looked after. And I want to know what you propose to do about it.”

Immediately, he shot a glance at Khamir. Although, his face didn't reveal what he was thinking, he stood glued to the ground, his mouth half open as if about to reply.

"No! Let him not propose a single thing more. Here we are, in the middle of this dark land, as unsafe as ever... and who led us here?" Eirnar breathed heavily, not knowing what to say next. He paused for a minute, biting his lip before continuing.

"No, two children are missing and we will have to do something. Our decision on what we choose to do will without a doubt have great impact on what becomes of us.. so... in other words, one man is not going to decide what we are going to do! And if we are children to him... well, he will see that we are not..."

[Tevildo]

"Are you alright?" called Azhar to Kwell.

"Alright? What do you think? They tried to get information out of me. Information about the slaves....where they were going and how they got here. I guess they think they'll get extra money if they return us all to the plantation we're from. That malt-worm Imak threatened to have his dogs tear me in pieces if I didn't speak up. I spat in his face and wouldn't tell him anything. He said I'd better talk tomorrow."

"So what are you going to do?" interjected the girl.

"I'll talk. I want to get out of here alive. But I'll tell them a pack of lies with a straight face. They'll never know the difference."

"It's dangerous Kwell. What if they find out?"

"They won't find out. I'm too smart for that. And what if they do?" Kwell shrugged his shoulders. "Anyways I expect tomorrow they'll start on you." Then he added bitterly, "I don't expect you'll last too long."

Azhar's face blanched white as she considered the possibility of having to stand up to a brute like Imak. For all her new found resolve and desire to start over, she felt Kwell had a point. She had no idea if she could hold out.

There was silence in the pit for some time. Azhar could feel her stomach growling, and she was pitifully thirsty. The maddening thing was that just to her left, in what was apparently a side tunnel, she could hear the sound of water gurgling. Azhar thought it might be possible to use the rocky footholds to climb up to the top of the cave, but the slavers had sealed off the entrance with a grating and stationed a guard immediately outside.

Suddenly, there was a small insistent noise, almost like a sawing, coming from the far side where Kwell was hunched over near the wall.

"What are you doing" she demanded.

"Trying to get these cursed ropes off. I've found a sharp rock, and I think I can do it." For the next half hour, there was more sawing and then a muffled cry of triumph as Kwell burst free of his restraints. He slipped the ropes off his legs and ran over to where Azhar was bound, using the same sharp edge to cut through her cords. Then Kwell put the rock inside his pocket, thinking it might come in hand for any number of interesting purposes. Freed from their restraints, the two children crept noiselessly over to the brook and drank their fill.

"Ugh look!" As Azhar finished drinking, she pointed to a slithering snake that was making its way down into the water. It was less than a foot in length.

Kwell looked at her and grinned, "I have an idea." Azhar shrank back in horror as Kwell took the snake by the tail and, still holding it, began to clamber up the side of the cave, using the rocky ledges and footholds to make his way to the top. She could see Kwell peer into the darkness; it was quiet in the encampment and the guard had fallen asleep. The boy tried unsuccessfully to move the grating. Although it was securely fastened, he was still able to put his hand between the wooden grates and feel about with his fingers. Azhar waited below, not sure what he was doing. At one point, she actually thought he heard him squeal in delight. When he came back down, he had a wider grin on his face, and the snake was gone.

"What's going on? What happened?"

"Never mind, you'll find out tomorrow. Now tie the ropes back on but loosely. Just make it look good so they think we were tied up all night."

Just before falling asleep, Azhar whispered to Kwell, "When do you think they'll come for us? The other slaves?"

"You must be joking. They won't come. They'll only care about their own necks. In this world, it's everybody for himself." For the next few minutes, Kwell could hear the soft sounds of sobbing from across the cave. He looked up and said something that was out of character, "Hey, Azhar, don't worry. We'll make it alright. Stick with me, and I'll take care of you." The sobbing stopped and there was silence as both children fell asleep.

[Undómë]

Brenna


Old habits die hard, and especially for one who has been under the thumb…the eye..the lash of others for so long. The old feelings came up, shouting Danger! Be quiet; be small! Invisible…

Brenna was rooted to the spot she stood on..and that standing a precarious one from the blow she’d received from the slavers. Her eyes were cast down, shoulders hunched, arms hugging herself, as if to make her already small frame smaller still. There were angry words flying about and strong gestures and posturings. She shrank away from the hot words, the fiery waves that flashed from person to person.

Brenna withdrew to a small rise apart from those who were talking. And while it brought her some feeling of safety, it brought only a cold comfort. Two children were gone, snatched back by foul hands to that hateful life they had hoped was left behind.

‘Kwell…Azhar…’ she spoke aloud. Naught but the night and a small bird, a nightjar she thought, perched on the twisted limb of a stunted tree nearby could hear her. ‘I remember now.’ Their faces emerged from the crowd of those on the dusty trail of their escape route. ‘Those were their names; the ones those fiends took away,’ she said aloud again, making them more real to herself. ‘Kwell and Azhar. They were just at that twist in the road leading on to being a man, being a woman.’ She rubbed at her eyes. ‘Those demons should have taken me. I’ve spent all my life under the lash. What would a few more years matter.’ She rolled up her ragged sleeve, baring her left arm. The skin of her forearm bore an old scar, nearly lost amid the old bruises and scars left from hard work and punishments. It marked her as a slave, as someone who belonged to someone, somewhere.

She held her arms up in the moonlight. ‘But not forever…not forever…’

Brenna sat back down, her hand straying to a small flat rock lying near. ‘Bran, Nevan,’ she sighed, bringing her brothers’ still young faces into her mind. She picked up the stone, turning it over and over in her hand. ‘If only you would find me. You would stand up for the two taken, I’m sure of it. You would shout we should go north and take them back.’ She took out her small scythe and began to scratch a design into the stone’s surface. A few tears fell on the marks and she hastily wiped them away with her sleeve. ‘But I can’t…I can’t…’ She balanced the rock carefully on a pile of twigs near her little camping space.

Pulling her ragged shawl about her thin shoulders, she looked up toward the moon, wishing it were the sun instead and they were up and on their way to somewhere. Running or rescue…either, as long as they were moving along, no time for thinking. The small, plain bird hopped along the branch, craning his head at her, one bright black eye giving her a considering look.

‘Little Bird,’ she murmured, rocking back and forth a little on her haunches. ‘That’s what they called me…my brothers…when we played our games of hide and seek…’

[Firefoot]

Johari

“You always think this much?” asked Johari as she tried to sort through Hadith’s comments. She thought she understood and agreed, although she had never put it into so many words. He fumbled about for an answer to that, but she cut him off. “Never mind. Look at it this way. There’s always more than one way of doing something. Using your brick example, you could make a winch, and that would be the best way to do it. But you could also just throw the bricks up one at a time and hope the person at the top could catch them.”

She almost laughed at the incredulity on his face. “But that would be foolish!” he said. “People would get hurt that way.”

“But it would work,” Johari countered. “Just because it works doesn’t make it the right or only way to do something.”

This was beginning to feel like entirely too much thinking for Johari. It had been a long time since she concerned herself with why’s and how’s rather than what’s, and now didn’t seem like any time to start. “Anything else?” she asked dryly. “Your whole life story, perhaps?”

[Firefoot]

Grask

50 more miles! And in broad daylight, no less. Grask thought he might keel over if required to run so much farther without a rest. He silently thanked those other Orcs, Gwerr and Ishkur their names were. He had thought it would end there; Gwerr seemed to be the leader and he said time to rest. Grask had already picked out a little indentation for himself, facing northward so no light of sun would disturb him.

But now they were drawing weapons – why were those Uruks so keen to be away? Look how far they had already come! At least, it seemed like a great long way to Grask: all night they had run. He hoped it would not come to fighting; the Uruks were quite outnumbered anyway, even if they were bigger and stronger.

Then Grask realized he was a bit closer to them than might be wise, and backed off into his little ‘cave’. They wouldn’t bother him here, hopefully, and he could watch without drawing their attention.

[Durelin]

Novnarwen's post - Eirnar

After days of marching, Eirnar was starting to recognise a feeling he was all too familiar with; exhaustion. Having escaped from the plantations more than three years ago, he had thought and hoped that the years of slavery had vanished from his mind and that he would never have to be reminded of those years he had spent in turmoil. For a great period of time, he had indeed forgotten, or rather ignored, the marks these years had imprinted on him, but as he struggled to keep up the pace, despite his relatively young age, it was all coming back; working long days on the fields and the punishment as soon as he’d shown weakness; this heavy, dark cloud that hung over him them, also seemed to overwhelm him now. Those years could never be fully ignored, Eirnar realised bitterly, having defined who he was today. Eventually, he would be forced to accept it however, no matter how long he had tried ignoring and postponing it.

Looking around, he spotted Aedhild. She had arrived a few weeks before their departure from the caves. She had been in a terrifying state; her eyes bleary and wild with exhaustion. He had also discovered something else, which he believed had become obvious to most of the ex-slaves in due time; a fragility and a sadness he couldn’t recognise in any of the others... and madness… Oh! he still wasn’t sure. Somtimes she was like thunder itself on a sour, dreary autumn day, and other times she was completely calm. No one had been able to learn where she came from, and he doubted Aedhild knew it herself. For the last couple of days, ever since she recovered from unconsciousness, she had been silent, hardly muttering a single word to anyone. Her only question to Eirnar when she awoke had been whether it had been a fit again, “…this time it felt so different,” she had added weakly. “Yes, it was a fit… Don’t worry. You will be all right,” he had lied, biting his lip. He didn’t regret having lied to her; he feared the consequences the truth would have; would she then have a fit? Would she attack him once more? Would he be forced to strike her unconscious again? Shortly after, a man named Raegonn had asked why he had lied, obviously having overheard his reply. At first, Eirnar had been unable to answer, ashamed... but yet, not ashamed, he’d been… terrified, yes, that was it. He had indeed been terrified about this... life, what this life had done to him. “Had I really any other choice?” he’d finally asked, in truth referring to both the fact that he had struck her and then lied about it. At this, Raegonn had shrugged, waited and tapped his shoulder soft with his hand, as if in approval. No one of the others had spoken a word of the incident, and of that Eirnar was glad. Aedhild would never know the truth, and though he would and could never be proud of his actions, as hot-headed as he had been, it would be best if it remained this way.

As they approached the camp and made ready to settle in for the night, Eirnar couldn't help noticing how some of the children and the elderly were struggling. They were beyond doubt the most vulnerable. Naturally, this was to be expected. In an unknown country, where there were no obvious places they could quickly hide or take shelter, they were all easy targets for the enemy; in truth, in this landscape, they were complely lain bare for the enemy to see. It surely was insanity, and whose idea it had been in the first place, he did not know. Personally, he hadn’t been delighted by the suggestion of leaving the caves behind, he had been horrified. They had been waiting for the promised aid from Gondor, and although it had not arrived in due time, Eirnar had no doubts in his mind that King Elessar wouldn’t fail them. He had heard stories of this man, few of course, but they were enough to stun the most sceptic of men; he was a real King, who lived and breathed for his people. Both a Gondorian in flesh and heart, he had no right and would in truth be ashamed to think otherwise.

“Raegonn!” he called, breathing heavily. The dark haired man turned to face Eirnar.

“Are you all right?” he asked, slowly. “You look rather dreadful if I may be so bold to say so..” Raegonn hesitated, as if wanted to say something more.

“Heh. I’m good. No worries, though the marching does seem to bring back a lot I hoped I had forgotten…” Eirnar fell silent, not knowing how to proceed; how he hated these embarrassing moments, where he couldn’t quite find the right words or the right tone to say them in. Raegonn seemed to think the same, and being a polite, young man, he nodded in understanding.

“Makes you wonder,” Eirnar suddenly said, “who suggested this in the first place,” he continued with something that was supposed to be a laugh. Noticing himself the lack of sincerity and seeing Raegonn narrowing his eyes (whether intentionally or not, Eirnar didn’t know), he added quickly, “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t… ehm.. strike anyone...” This seemed to break the ice somehow, and Raegonn smiled faintly.

“Mhm. I first heard it from Khamir. A good man, with great dreams. A born leader.” Raegonn's pale cheeks seemed to glow for a moment, although Eirnar could might as well have imagined it.

“True. Surely, we all have dreams… I was just curious about where we were heading, where our dreams and hopes are to be fulfilled…” Eirnar said grinning.

Raegonn chuckled and turned away to prepare for the night.

***

Though the night had enclosed on them, Eirnar lay half awake. The pain of his aching limbs didn’t seem to bother him as much anymore; something quite else was on his mind.

Eirnar was not a particularly bright man, nor was he stupid either. He had observed Khamir and the others from the very beginning, but he had to admit that Khamir, especially, had caught his attention. Although he had failed to see the extraordinary leadership skills he supposedly possessed, Eirnar had observed him with interest; it seemed that the young Southron in some way had managed not only to gain trust, but the others also seemed to respect him for reasons yet unknown to Eirnar. In which situation had Khamir so clearly stood forth and thus earned this respect? How had he come to be the one deciding to leave the caves? How had he managed to convince them all to leave? The caves had been their shelter, the only safe place they had known for months and months, and now, this man, had taken them away from it. Eirnar couldn’t quite understand any of it; why the men, women and children’s eyes, when gazing upon him, were filled with such warmth; it reminded him of an admiration close to idolization. Undeserved, Eirnar concluded, he must surely have manipulated his way to their trust and respect. Painfully was also the fact that he was a Southron. Was there any of the other escapees who recognised him from the life at the plantations… as a slave…

Although, Eirnar didn’t know at this point, there was something, something which he couldn’t quite define with words yet, and so all of it would remain thoughts. For now.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Durelin's Post: Night

It had been a long day of marching for the former slaves, and though their bodies were tough and their minds determined, the weariness was clear on practically all of their faces. When the sun was a fireball above the distant mountains to the West, Khamir began looking for a place to rest for the night. When he could, he tried to find a place that was somehow indiscriminate. He knew the night was not safe; the day was not really either, but the night was different. It was in darkness that most Orcs felt comfortable, and it was in darkness that every type of being tended to do evil.

There was little to choose from for a place to rest, and Khamir was forced to settle with an area in between to small hills. The gap between the hills was large, plenty large for sixty-five people to settle down around a few different fires. Beloan had pointed out more of the men and boys that he determined could be among the defenders, and each was now equipped with some kind of knife, spiked club, or rough axe that was meant for chopping wood, and used for that too. It took a great deal, but Khamir was persuaded to let at least one or two of the boys take one of the watches that night. The one-armed man had divided up the night into five rough sections, five watches, and he determined that by the start of the third watch, and at the latest before the start of the fourth, all fires must be out. There was no sense in leaving a beacon. They didn’t need any kind of rescue you find in Mordor.

Adnan, fifteen years old, was on the third watch. He had spoken so boldly about how he wanted to take one of the watches, and how he would protect the camp, how nothing would get past him, how he would lead the defenders to drive back any forsaken creatures that attacked… Beloan had told him not to get his hopes up. Now, Adnan dearly wished that man was beside him again. He curled himself up, drawing his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. One hand gripped the knife he had been given as if his life depended on it. If there was one thing to be sure of, it was that the blade wasn’t leaving his hand. Whether or not he would be able to use it, though, was an entirely different question.

The kind of quiet that settled on Mordor in the night was not the most peaceful one. And with the moon in its second week of waxing, there was enough light to play tricks on anyone’s eyes. Adnan jumped at any noise, any sign of movement, for what felt like hours. His body was tense, every muscle overly prepared to move. Over and over, the boy wondered what would happen if he was unable to warn the camp of an attack. His throat was dry, it felt swollen shut, and he had to force his swallows down. He was certain his voice would fail him when he had to call out. He wouldn’t even be able to scream before his throat was slit and the Orc marauders, the Easterling bandits entered the camp and slaughtered the rest. And all because of him.

All the fires were out, as Khamir had ordered. Adnan really was alone. His only comfort was found in the soft rhythm of breathing, the sound nearest him. Focusing his ears on the beat helped his own breathing slow, his heart rate drop to something a little more normal, and his sight begin to blur. His head felt heavier and heavier until he felt no more at all. His breathing matched the rhythm of the night around him, and the moonlight disintegrated into pitch…