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

[Durelin]

Khamir

“C’mon....let’s go find the rest of those scum.”

A smile passed between them, and Shae’s face became frozen in Khamir’s mind: her brown hair in disarray, blood smeared across her tan forehead, her eyes bright green…he had seen her a thousand times before, in a million different glances, but this time was different. She smiled. He finally realized he had seen her smile. More than once? He thought so… Through his eyes, there was a glow about her. There was a power in her eyes and in her voice, and a bravery he knew he would never understand. Khamir could not stand to remember how he had treated her at times in the past. Perhaps he would have seen what he saw now in her sooner if she had more reason to smile. Or more likely he should have looked.

Shae took off immediately, and Khamir followed after a moment, catching up to her as best as he could. He could feel pain coursing through his leg, though, and it crept up to his thigh, wrapping around his calf and enveloping his knee as it spread. Looking at Shae’s wrist, and listening to her breaths, which were as ragged as his, he wondered what good they would do back by the grove. They had been extremely lucky to bring two men down, and likely was only made possible by his catching them by surprise. Now he had a more serious wound, and it was clear that Shae, though he knew she would not give up nor stop fighting with ferocity, was definitely feeling the pain in her wrist.

But his concern for Shae was perhaps too much. He began to lag behind, though he did his best to keep up. The pain was maddening, and though he fought through it as best he could, as he had fought through so much pain before, he found himself feeling weaker than ever and watched the ground beneath his feet slow in its passing. Khamir had worse wounds before, but he had never been in a battle such as this, where he had not had more than a few moments respite. He had been on the move since the beginning, so many names and faces spinning round in his head – he wanted to help them all. Now he felt he could do little to help himself.

“Shae…” he said, and she slowed as she turned her head to look at him, “I’m sorry, but…I can’t…I can’t move as fast as you right now…” he spoke amongst his heavy breathing.

The woman stopped, and after a brief moment of surprise, she asked, “Do you need help?” She glanced at his leg.

“No,” Khamir responded quickly, as if a reflex. Shae shook her head, but did not move on. She looked at him, waiting.

“I just need you to move a little slower,” the one-armed man stated as quickly as he could. He would not call it help. “Neither of us will do any good on our own,” he added.

“Maybe, but I’d say you’d do worse,” she remarked. Khamir grunted in assent, and the two took off again at a slower pace.

As they neared the grove, it appeared to them that chaos was making the situation more dangerous. The number of slaver bodies they ran into made them feel bits of relief amongst their concern for those they loved and those they barely knew, but it seemed the destruction was not over.

“We should find Lindir,” Shae said. And though Khamir agreed that Lindir, who he had learned was an Elf – an immortal! – would be able to assess the situation (and he was fairly certain in his belief that this Elf would not have been killed by mere Men of the East), the Southron could not simply tell Shae that.

“Or Beloan,” he suggested stubbornly.

[Firefoot]

Johari’s concern for Hadith had largely been forgotten in her discomfort, and so she could not help but be slightly relieved when Hadith faded back into unconsciousness.

It was as if their relationship was losing objectivity and becoming more personal. And his touch – it seemed like so long since she had felt another human’s touch. For years now, she had isolated herself from others, mentally and emotionally, so that even Hadith’s friendly, desperate touch repelled her and confused her. Her hand still felt tingly.

I’m not really that nice of a person, Hadith. You’d probably be better off without me.

The cries of fighting brought her back to the present. It was much closer now; Johari realized the slavers must be attacking here, at the grove. They would be in danger now; if she wanted out of the fighting, she would have to leave now. Instead, her hand went to her knife. She might have avoided the fighting earlier, but she wouldn’t run from it now. She began to stand, then knelt back down and quickly squeezed Hadith’s hand. Then she was gone.

She moved quickly and stealthily towards the screams, her knife drawn. She did not know how to use the knife, not really; with her fists and fingernails she might be as vicious as a wildcat, but the knife felt awkward in her hand. It would be better if she could ambush a slaver, rather than exchange blows.

Through the trees she caught sight of a slaver was chasing two girls, perhaps two of those she had seen gathered around Granny Brenna the previous night. Johari broke into a swift run, aiming to intercept their path. Hatred for the man bubbled up inside her that had nothing to do with the two girls: it was entirely personal. She could easily imagine him as one of the overseers she had only ever been able to offer token resistance to. How many times had she wanted to launch herself at them, strangle them – anything that would do more damage than a smart mouth?

She forgot the knife in her hand. As she neared them, he seemed to hear her footsteps crashing towards them, but his momentum would not allow him to turn enough to meet her with his blade as she jumped on him from the side and landed heavily on top of him. She heard his right arm, his sword arm, crack beneath them. Still he grappled with her with his good arm, and soon was out from beneath her. She launched at him again, swinging her fists. One blow connected solidly with his left temple. She fought furiously, unthinkingly, like an animal. Dimly she realized that the knife in his left hand was her knife, the one she had dropped; she had grabbed his wrist and was digging in her fingernails. A sensation of needing the knife coursed through her. She clawed at his fingers without avail. A hard kick in the shin loosened his grip enough for her to knock the knife from his grip. Both lunged for it; Johari reached it first and swung the blade blindly in his direction just as he came down on top of her. The blade ran straight through his chest. He was dead.

Suddenly weak and breathing shakily, Johari crawled out from under him. The fury was gone. She could already feel aches forming all over her body, and her arm was bleeding, but she remembered receiving none of the injuries. In fact, she remembered very little of the fight at all after she jumped on him the first time. She had killed him; only that mattered. Or it ought to matter. At the moment, Johari did not feel anything, not anger or satisfaction or grief or victory. She only leaned back against a tree and closed her eyes.

[Regin Hardhammer]

"Boy, come here." Ishkur barked out the words in the gruffest tone he could manage. Then he waved at Grask and indicated that the boy should come over and stand beside him.

"Here." Ishkur shoved the bag of coins close to Grask's face and explained. "Just a few coppers and a silver penny or two. Put it away and don't let the Uruks see it."

The boy seemed to be nervous. He stood completely still so Ishkur took the small pouched and placed it firmly in Grask's hand. This time, he softened his voice. "Go ahead. It's yours. You might need these someday. Just remember who gave this pouch to you. You're growing up, and someday I may need you to guard my back."

With that, Ishkur turned around and tramped back across the camp to return to the tent where his friend waited with the open cask of ale.

[piosenniel]

‘Ladies! I want you to put these rocks and scrubby bushes between you and the slavers.’ Rôg reached out an arm to grab a young child who’d wriggled out from the press of legs and cloth that surrounded him. ‘You, too,’ the man said, plopping the squirming little lad into the nearest set of arms.

His ears brought him the news that the slavers had breached the entrance to the grove. There were the loud shouts of the warriors as they came pell-melling in toward their prizes, the harsh tattoo of their horses’ hooves, and the keening sounds of the increasingly frightened women as their eyes took in the murderous advance of the slavers. ‘Put the children behind you!’ he shouted to the women, his voice barely rising over the frenzied tumult. ‘And your staffs, get them ready.....your staffs!’

Rôg turned just as two of the slavers crossed the halfway point in the little clearing. From the corner of his eye, he saw the great boar chasing one of the men, now unhorsed, from the grove. He swung his own staff about as one of the slavers urged his mount toward the clutch of women and children. It was a well meant defense, but ineffective against the muscular chest of the horse. The animal swerved only slightly, and that was more at the direction of his rider whose long thick club came round in a brutal arc toward Rôg.

With a whooshing grunt, Rôg exhaled forcefully as the club connected with his midriff. Doubled over from the force of the blow, his legs nearly gave way. He tried to rally, motioning all the while for the women and children to run. The slaver turned his horse and headed back toward the stricken man. Again his club came up and swung round to catch Rôg hard at the back of the skull.

Some of the women had run forward toward the slaver, striking his horse about the head and legs with their staves. It was enough, but barely, to keep the club’s second strike from being a killing blow. Rôg’s mind went blank......dark.....He fell to the ground in a heap.

~*~

‘Over here!’ shouted the slaver to his companions. Another one had come into the clearing, and now the three of them came rushing toward the little flock of women and the children just beyond. ‘Take ‘em!!’ cried the first slaver. ‘Catch and bind them.’ He leered at the women and their meager defenses. They would bring good coin in the slave markets. With a yowl of triumph he urged his fellows toward their prizes.

[Undómë]

Brenna

Just like a scarecrow in the planting fields!

That was Brenna’s fleeting thought as she watched Rôg crumple to the ground. It was only a momentary consideration, though, as she hurried forward with several other of the other women toward the fallen man.

‘Catch and bind them!’ she heard the slaver who’d clubbed Rôg shout. ‘No!’ she heard a loud voice cry out. Her own voice, she realized as she raised her sharpened stave in her hands to fend off the approaching slavers. Gwenith and Nia darted out from behind her, scrambling forward to get close to where Rôg lay.

There were loud shouts to either side of Brenna now as others of the women yelled out their anger at the slavers. ‘You’ll never take us back, you sons of dogs!’ The women rushed forward as the two girls dragged Rôg’s limp body to what makeshift safety the scrubby bushes would afford him.

The ranks of the women swelled as the cries against the three slavers grew louder. With a bravery born of anger, the group coalesced into a wrathful army, rattling their sticks at the would-be captors. There were far more of them than the horsed trio. But number and heightened emotion could only last so long against men trained in fighting, in murder, in the hunting of others of their own kind.

Brenna was one of the oldest of the women. She struck out at the slaver with her sharpened stick, drawing blood from his thigh where the sharp point of it pierced his flesh. She fell to the slaver’s sword; his heavy, fatal blows fueled by his anger at her boldness, her temerity. Nia and Gwenith ran forward to throw themselves between her and the man’s blade. They, too, were cut down.

‘Hold!' came the cry from one of the men. ‘We need them alive if we’re to sell them. Dead, they do us no good.’ He sheathed his blade, trading it for his club and net. In like manner his two henchmen put up their bows and their own swords. Urging their mounts onward, they trampled the three fallen women and began to swing their clubs at the others that still stood clustered on the small field. The blows from the slavers’ clubs were glancing, just enough to knock the women down. Once downed, the slavers threw their nets in an effort to entangle, to capture them.

The women were soon in disarray. Panic overtook their boldness. Panic fueled by fear. Some of the younger children, the littler ones cried and screamed as they watched their mothers struck with the clubs. They ran toward where their mothers lay and were themselves caught up like little birds in the nets.

‘Get them! Round up the rest!’ shouted the lead horseman once again.

Like frightened animals, the remainder of the women grabbed up their children, and those who were childless took up those little ones who stood crying in the flying dust. They ran, as fast as their legs would carry them from the hunters.....splitting up into small groups of twos and threes, running wildly in many different directions.

The three slavers, smug in their confidence they would prevail, split off from each other to pursue their separate quarry.

[Brinniel]

Eirnar stood at the center of the chaos, his shirtsleeve torn and bloody from a cut on his shoulder. In his right hand, he clutched a knife already stained from use. Throughout the night, he had followed his fellow ex-slaves from the tunnels to the camp, defending himself in every way possible along the way. Standing now covered in sweat and blood, the man could not help but feel overwhelmed. This night seemed to be lasting forever….how long had it been since the battle first begun?

Another ex-slave nearly slammed into Eirnar as she ran by, apologizing briefly as she continued on. Eirnar turned his head in the direction the woman had come from where several slavers began to pursue their victims. The man watched in horror as the slavers slaughtered women and children before one cried out, “Hold! We need them alive if we’re to sell them. Dead, they do us no good.” The men then began to club the women, and one by one they went down. One of those who fell victim to the clubs was Aedhild. Instead of running away from the charging men, she ran towards them, shrieking furiously. One slaver swung his club, then she too went down.

Panic set in Eirnar. During the rush of the battle he had completely forgotten about the poor woman. He had been hesitant as Aedhild’s protector at first, but it was a role he had slowly accepted, and seeing her fall, the man sensed failure for the one task he was meant for.

Pandemonium was in the atmosphere as women and children ran past Eirnar, fearing for their lives. As the slavers rode their horses after them, Eirnar took this opportunity to rescue Aedhild before she fell completely in the hands of the enemy. In the confusion, the man managed to reach the older woman and pull her into the brush without being seen.

Aedhild laid unconscious, blood pouring profusely from a deep gash on the side of her head. Apparently, the slaver had gotten slightly carried away when he clubbed her. Eirnar tore extra cloth from his shirt to help staunch the bleeding, but it seemed to do very little. The woman had suffered from so much, and already she was beginning to look rather pale. Eirnar looked around frantically. Where was the healer? Aedhild needed proper care…and soon.

Eirnar flinched as a set of hooves whirled by, nearly trampling the two. Still applying pressure to her wound, the man gritted his teeth in frustration, cursing into the darkness. “Don’t you die, Aedhild, I won’t let you,” he said aloud. “You live through this and I promise…I won’t ever fail you again. If I am to be your protector, then protect you I will.”

Eirnar could not understand why he felt so attached to this pathetic woman, why he so desperately wished her to live. For so long she had been a burden to him…and yet, at the same time….she had given him something else. For the first time in years, the man had a reason to live, an actual purpose to his own pitiful existence. As Eirnar cradled Aedhild in his arms, he came to realize that he needed her just as much as she needed him. And that in itself was enough of a reason for both of them to survive the night.

The shouting was slowly dying down and there was no longer a slaver in sight. Aedhild’s wound continued to bleed, and Eirnar knew she could not wait much longer. Wrapping his arms around her, he snatched up the surprisingly light woman and took off in the direction where the injured lay, searching for the healer.

[Tevildo]

Azhar's post

The noise and smell of battle threatened to overwhelm the girl as she struggled to open her eyes. With great effort, Azhar reached out and latched onto a small limb of a bramble bush that was growing nearby. Ignoring the thorns that left deep scratches along the back of her hand, she labored to pull her body into an upright position and stared out across the grove, straining to see what was happening. The sky overhead was dark and bleak. This time it was not the storm that painted the heavens a murky black, but the fact that they had been fighting so hard for so many hours. Azhar stared upward, seeking some sign of consolation, but not a single star was visible above.

The girl's head was pounding with hurt and confusion; her side ached horribly, where she had slammed against the sharp edge of a rock. Yet that pain was nothing compared with the sight that greeted her eyes. There was chaos and tumult everywhere. The bodies of three women littered the ground, and the dread horsemen had not left. They galloped from one fleeing party to the next, swords and nets in hand, attempting to round up more of their victims.

Rôg, where was Rôg? Where was the great dragon that could sweep into the heavens and chase away the riders? Azhar quickly glanced around. But Rôg had fallen, huddled in a ball of pain and blackness. She could make out his shape and form concealed by a scrub bush just a short distance away--- a tall gangly man, dressed in robes that seemed more like those of a scholar or scribe than a warrior in the midst of battle. She could not even tell if the southerner was still alive. Nor could she guess the reason why he had not taken on another form to save himself. Her stomach lurched, and she wretched on the ground.

Her first thought was to try and do something to save those who were fleeing and could not fight for themselves. But even if she had the strength or will, she had no weapon of her own. A bright image of a great bear rising up from the ground slipped inside her mind. But it was nothing more than an illusion. No matter how hard she concentrated or how much she tried to pour herself into the form, her body did not respond. She was a small human figure on a bloody battlefield, seemingly deserted by all her friends.

She quickly drew herself to her feet and started to sprint out of the grove, but a sharp pain in her ankle told her this would be impossible. It was only a simple sprain, something that would clear up with a good stiff bandage and a day or two of rest. But right now she had neither of these. Unable to run away, she nervously looked around, her eyes widening in fear and surprise as a single rider came sweeping in her direction. The slaver galloped up, slid off his horse's back, and, with one swift motion, grabbed her by the hair and forced her head back. For several minutes, Azhar struggled, screaming and kicking in a desperate attempt to get away. She managed to yank herself forward and, by violently twisting her neck to one side, positioned her head to clamp down on the man's arm, biting as hard as she could. The slaver howled in pain, then reached down and drew out a long glinting dagger, brandishing it threateningly an inch from her neck.

Helpless and defeated, Azhar let go and slumped to the ground as the man tied her wrists together and clamped on an iron bracelet with a long trailing chain . He remounted his horse and began loping forward, as she stumbled along behind him. "You'll fetch a good price on the market." he crowed, sounding entirely pleased with himself.