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

[Child of the 7th Age]

By mid-afternoon, most of the preparations were completed. The men had nothing left to do but wait. An uneasy feeling hung over the camp. Even Dorran and Lindir, the two members of the fellowship who had often been in situations like this, seemed impatient and tense.

Lindir felt uneasy. He had heard nothing from Rôg or Aiwendil, although the istar had promised to send back a message by pigeon the moment that the slavers appeared The elf was acutely aware that their attackers held the upper hand in the coming conflict. Despite their smaller numbers, the slavers were experienced fighters wielding sturdy swords and daggers and charging forward on the backs of horses. When compared with these battle hardened veterans, the escaped slaves seemed little more than a rag tag bunch of refugees who lacked horses or decent weapons. Most of the men had never even been in battle. Nor was everyone able to fight. Earlier that afternoon, Lindir had led a contingent of children and women, along with the sick and elderly, over to a small cove of boulders located near the rear of camp. The shelter provided by the large rocks was not ideal but the best they could manage on the flat, open plain.

All this lay heavy on Lindir’s mind as he paced about on the edge of camp, intermittently turning to stare towards the east. A short distance away, he could just make out the outline of the trench they had constructed. Vrór and Carl had done an excellent job supervising the digging. Men and women had thrown their hearts and backs into the endeavor; the tunnel was perfectly shielded and blended into the ground so that an approaching rider would have no idea of the disaster that lay underfoot. Even here, however, Lindir could see one problem. The trench was no more than fifteen feet long. What guarantee did they have that the slavers would ride their horses in that exact direction? What was to stop them from approaching camp a few paces to the right or left and totally missing the pit?

It was then that the idea struck him. He knew it was dangerous.....far too dangerous....and he could not imagine asking anyone to do this. Yet at the same time, when so much hung in the balance, he could not overlook the fact that this arrangement might save many precious lives. What they needed was a human decoy, someone willing to serve as an enticing piece of bait, preferably an unarmed woman who would stampede across the field of battle and lure the slavers onward to the exact spot where the perilous trench lay. That individual would need to be an excellent rider with a clear, cool head.. The elf hurried over to Dorran, pulling the man of Rohan to the side, and confided his fears and concerns about the coming battle, especially in relation to the trench. With some hesitation, Lindir inched on to the second part, explaining the idea about the decoy, how the slavers would be led on to their certain doom, and a great number of lives could be saved.

At first, Dorran said nothing and fixed his gaze on the ground. He could not dispute the very real wisdom of what Lindir was saying. Many, many lives could be saved if the slavers could be directed towards the pits in this way. But there was another question that hung heavy on his mind. He sighed and softly asked, “Who then would you order to do such a deed?”

“Order? How could I order anyone, especially a fair woman, to embark on such a dangerous path. No, this could not be an order. It would have to come from the heart of whoever volunteered to do this brave thing.” The two men looked at each other, both hesitent to say anything more.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Frustrated and impatient, Aiwendil pushed the end of his staff into a soft pile of sand, leaning his body against the heavy stave as he intently scanned the horizon to the east. Despite the passage of several hours, there was no sign of his friend Rôg or the band of slavers. Aiwendil had not known exactly when the attackers would come, but he had expected Rôg to be waiting for him at their chosen meeting place. The young man, however, was nowhere in sight. The istar reached inside the folds of his robe and found the small pigeon still nestled in his pocket.

The falcon had returned with several of her companions. They were gliding peacefully overhead awaiting the minute when Aiwendil would give the word to attack. Cupping his hand to his mouth, the old man called out to the same bird he had spoken with earlier that day, “When will the storm come? Can you tell?”

She had swept down and nodded, “Not long. When the sun touches the tops of those rocks over there, the great winds will begin to blow.”

Aiwendil’s eyes followed in the direction the falcon had indicated. The sun was already inching closer to the plain. In just about an hour, it would dip down into the boulders. If the slavers were coming, it must be now. He could only hope that the band had already left camp. Otherwise, their leader would see the bad weather and turn back.

A small swirl of dust and sand appeared in the distance, an indication that a group of riders was moving across the plain. About twenty-five heavily armed fighters were cantering slowly towards the west. The head falcon responded with an excited “kek, kek, kek” as Aiwendil gave the birds the signal to fly free. The istar cried to the departing falcons. “Scratch the flanks and withers of the beasts. Attack the men about the head and eyes only if it is safe. Then return home with my thanks.”

The old man watched from behind a boulder as the birds swooped down amid the riders and began darting in and out, clawing at the horses’ flanks. There were angry curses and swords drawn from sheaths as the slavers slowed their mounts in response to the attack. Several horses had deep scratches along their sides, while two of the men riding in the front had blood streaming down their faces from cuts and gashes near their eyes.

Catching a glimpse of Rôg who was returning with some interesting companions, Aiwendil reached in his pocket and drew out the bird, binding a small scrap of parchment to her leg. Then he raised up his arms and, facing west, released the pigeon into the sky.

[piosenniel]

Blood!

The scent of it carried on the breeze of the men’s passing. It stirred the hornets into a hungry frenzy, diverting them from the object of their present pursuit..... Himself!

Once Rôg had firmed up his plan, he hurried as quickly as the rising wind would take him toward that place where Aiwendil had said he would most likely set the birds on the slavers. Near the rendezvous, Rôg scouted the ground carefully, looking for someplace where the ground dwelling insects might have their nest. No half buried hollowed log this time, but a branchy bush it was whose half exposed tangle of roots provided an entry way to that darkish little cavern beneath which the hornets had claimed for themselves.

He’d stomped about the bush, thumping his feet hard on the dirt, beating at the branches with a stick he’d found. It hadn’t taken much effort or time to stir the small hive of insects to a focused, angry frenzy. They’d come flying out with deadly purpose, intent on doing in their attacker.

And all praise to the old fellow for being timely with his falcons!

Rôg flew with all the speed he could muster toward the men and their horses. As the smell of their fresh wounds hit him, he dropped down low to the ground, hoping fervently that the small cloud of buzzing hornets would take the scent themselves. He closed his eyes.....and would have crossed his fingers as a warding charm had he had any in this guise. He breathed out a great sigh of relief as the angry cloud whirred over and then past him. With an economy of effort, he withdrew to the shelter of some scrubby trees, grinning as he peeked out from behind the sparse shelter at the outcome of his efforts.

A number of the horses were in a frenzy, trying to escape from the painful stings of the hornets. Their riders were scarce able to control them as they themselves were frantically attempting to wave off or kill the wingéd missiles. A few of the men fell from their horses, overcome by the deadly intent of the insects. And a number of those riderless mounts now ran wildly off.

It was a thoroughly delightful rout...at least for now.....

The hornets, he knew, once they realized the horses and men were not wounded enough to succumb to their stings and then be feasted on, would draw away and head back to their nest. Still, it had brought the advance of the slavers to a halt for the moment. And for several moments, he thought, watching as some of the less stung rode off to retrieve the runaways while others of the men called for help for their stung and painfully swelling comrades. Rôg only hoped it might buy his companions and their new allies enough time to complete their preparations against the slavers.....

[Nogrod]

Hadith and Johari

Hadith was getting to where the assigned foot soldiers would gather and make clear of their tactics under the advice of Beloan and Joshwan, of whom the latter seemed to have raised to the occasion. Hadith looked at the late pirate with new eyes as he walked downhill.

On his way he bumbed into Johari. "Oh it's you again", Johari said, condescending.

“Johari! Where are you going? Are you going to join us foot soldiers? Come with me then?” Hadith was tense but tried to be manly and graceful. His mother’s teachings were deep in him.

Johari shrugged a little. "Not anywhere in particular... I'm not much one for battles, or being in the thick of them."

Hadith was upset with the answer. He was totally baffled. How could someone say something like this? But after a small pause he managed to answer her: "What do you say? You're not ready to help others... just sticking to yourself, burying your head into the ground? That's just the thing that benefits the slavers! We must stick together and that means you too! You must join us!" Hadith’s expression was filled with disbelief and begging the question.

Johari looked somewhat indifferent and mildly annoyed: "What if I told you that I don't really care, and that what happens to most of the people here doesn't matter to me?"

Hadith felt stunned for a while and forcefully brought himself to answer her with the immediate question that twirled in his mind: “What do you say?” He was nervous again, as he had been with this woman every time he had met her. But there was something more in it now. He was totally baffled with Johari. She was a wise woman but talked the contrary of every belief he himself found secure. Hadith gathered his thoughts and asked sharply his next question as he thought he had gotten a grip of what was it that they were discussing in the end.

“How would you survive alone in this land, against those slavers and the nature that is dead? Isn’t freedom also about the others?” he made a pause. Hadith was getting even more serious: “Isn’t freedom something about all the people? That you freely decide to be there for others and trust the others to be there with you?” he made a pause again, trying to avoid Johari’s eyes. “ I don’t know... You really make me confused.”

Johari smiled bitterly. "Freedom, yes, that's what it's all about. Freedom. What a concept. Freedom to do what? To what purpose? Perhaps if freedom in itself was what I wanted, I would be more inclined to care... more inclined to fight. Can I help it, Hadith, that none of this matters to me beyond how it affects me, and that as long as I make it out of here alive, with or without the rest of you, I will be satisfied? I never intended to join up with any group when I escaped, but somehow I got dragged along. I don't know why I've stayed. But... this isn't what I want." She stopped abruptly. Suddenly Johari looked and sounded more distraught than Hadith - or anyone else - had seen her in years. This expression was quickly masked again and the familiar hardness returned to her face, seeming to dare Hadith to make something of it.

Surely all this was lost from Hadith’s eyes. "What do you want then?" he asked abruptly and as he got no immediate answer, he turned away in confusion. His young heart had been wounded again by this woman, but he was not sure whether it was for good or bad.

[Folwren]

Athwen had done what she could to help with the preparations that day. There had been work to do constantly during the morning and half of the afternoon. She helped the children and women and elderly get settled in their appropriate places, hidden from view. Now there was nothing left for her to do. She wanted to speak once more with Dorran, and then return to her place and stay with the other women.

She skirted around the large boulders and rocks that created the shelter and walked down the slight incline towards the camping place. The remains of the fires dotted brown sand and men moved about or stood speaking in groups. She looked for her husband as she walked on and soon spotted him. He stood with Lindir, just behind the place where the tunnel ran guarding the encampment. They stood close together, their heads bent inward, speaking with each other as they watched the open plain.

She passed silently through the camp and drew near to the two of them. Their expressions were grave and full of thought. Perhaps more plans were being considered for that evening’s fight.

Lindir looked up when she came near and she smiled at him as she stopped by Dorran’s side. Her hand slid into Dorran’s and she looked up at him.

“Is something wrong?” she asked at once, startled by the troubled look in his eyes. But Dorran only shook his head.

“Nothing is actually wrong,” he said. “Lindir has thought of a plan that will lead the slavers into our trap here, but it needs a rider.” He told her what had passed between the two of them in a few words. When he had finished, Athwen looked steadily at him a moment, and then turned her head and looked up at Lindir.

“And you will not ask anyone to do this?”

“I will not order anyone,” Lindir replied.

Athwen looked back at her husband. “Dorran, I-” His face fell instantly, and he dropped his eyes. “I will be careful!” Athwen pressed, knowing at once that he had read her thoughts. “You need someone - you need a woman who can ride well, and I can do it! You know I can. I can lead them into the trap and then return to my place and be ready to tend to any wounds that should occur. Please, Dorran.”

[Firefoot]

“You wouldn’t understand,” said Johari roughly. Likely enough, this was at least partially true. Hadith was so naïve, so full of hope; how could he begin to comprehend the crumbling world she lived in? And while he might understand about wanting to find Kalin, Johari did not want to talk about it. She did not want his help or his pity.

“I can try,” said Hadith.

He just didn’t give up on an idea! “Look, it doesn’t matter, all right? Forget I said anything.”

Hadith was looking confused – one of these days his face was going to get stuck like that, Johari thought, and smiled despite herself. He also seemed about to say something more, so Johari cut him off. “If it matters so much to you, I’ll tell you one thing. His name is Kalin. I hope that satisfies you.” Why was she telling him this, anyway? He had no right into her business. “Why do you care so much, anyway? I’ve done nothing but ridicule you, scorn you, even punch you. Don’t you ever take a hint?”

[Durelin]

Khamir

The “Dwarf,” as Khamir had learned the short, flame-haired man was, had been incredibly kind, and the Southron was still surprised by his kind, soft-spoken nature. His respect for the Fellowship had only been increasing since they arrived, and it left him feeling a little lost – though it was a more pleasant feeling than any like it he had ever had. There was little joy for himself, but plenty for others, and that made up for his losses. He was unhappy with his position, mostly because he had no idea what it was.

He was a raging mix of pride and disappointment, happiness and bitterness, strength and fear. The coming battle filled him with excitement, and he still stuck to his belief that they could not lose now, not now that they had spirit and, though he shocked himself to think it, the help of Gondor. They had waited for it for so long, that, now that it had been received, these heroes of the King were more like men out of legends than ever. And there was even an Elf among them! The tall, dark-haired man with strange ears, it was said, was an Elf, thousands and thousands of years old! With such wisdom and experience, they were in good company.

But what place did Khamir have in the coming battle? He had only one arm, he could not draw a bow, he did not have a sword and had not carried one since his youth. The Dwarf, Vrór he was called, only reassured him when he voiced his concerns, but gave no suggestions. His face, even with the majority of it covered with orange hair, appeared a little perplexed. Khamir said nothing, but inwardly thanked him for his kindness. Unable to remain with the Dwarf, obviously a natural warrior if this was the natural appearance and nature of his people, the one-armed man went to find Beloan. Even now, he would seek the man’s counsel.

His friend was leading the group of foot soldiers, and was going over plans for where they would conceal themselves until all the traps had been sprung and the archers had their share of the enemy, and how they would time their attack with regards to the predicted sandstorm. Seeing him busy, and with Joshwan, Khamir decided that now was not the best time to speak with him. His pride just could not handle being looked at as some poor injured creature, beaten down from its former position – for that was surely how many of them saw it, when they had been adverse to his leadership for some time now.

Discovering that Shae was to be a member of a small group of horsemen, he felt particularly alone.

He had to take his place somewhere in the battle, and he supposed that with these other regular “soldiers” as they suddenly called themselves was as good a fit as any. It seemed like another life in which he had drawn back a bowstring, his sights on a black-tailed jackrabbit, a kill to impress his father…

With only three throwing knives, they would not last him long. And however quick he was with his longer hunting knife, it would be nothing against the slavers’ swords and spears. He had always been about survival, and now he found himself feeling almost trapped. Over the past couple months, he had begun to realize that his own survival had been surpassed in importance by that of others. Perhaps now he could resign himself to that.

“Wi…will this knife be enough?” came a hesitant but clear and assured voice from somewhere behind him, whispering under the louder voices of Beloan and Joshwan. He turned to see the boy – or young man – who had been on watch when the slavers first attacked. Adnan. Khamir could picture his face that night, the grief and rage and shame twisting it, and looking at the fifteen year old now, he was certain that it already bore new marks of age. The way Adnan held out the knife he had been granted not too long ago it seemed he had been using it for years.

Khamir smiled, a slight smirk, from pride and compassion rather than from happiness, but his voice was as steady and heavy as ever when he spoke. “Yes, yes it will. But we will have to watch each others’ backs, won’t we?”