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

[Regin Hardhammer]

"Yes, I've seen it. I have eyes in my head. But how is this my fault? Am I the one who is making them act like fools? I told them to come up to the camp for a drop of brew, not to drink themselves into the ground. I've had my share of ale but I know when to stop. As for the women, how should I know where they are? What do you expect me to be.....a nursemaid?"

Ishkur glowered at Makdush but neither orc nor Uruk drew out their weapon. There was silence in the tent. Finally, Ishkur grunted and spoke, "Makdush, I don't know what you are going to do. But Gwerr and I were leaving. Neither of us wants to be here after the men return." Ishkur threw a warning glance at Gwerr hoping that he wouldn't open his mouth and blab that they had never even talked about that. "Now, if you'll get out of the way, Uruk, I have to mount my horse."

Ishkur turned to his friend. "Gwerr, if you like, we can ride double. Let's head back to camp. As to you," Ishkur glared at Makdush. "Do what you want. Stay or leave. Just stay clear." Ishkur flashed a look over at Makdush that was halfway between a grin and a grimace "And don't forget. Right now there's two of us and just one of you!"

With that, Makdush backed out of the tent.

[Durelin]

Vrór

It was tugging at him. Something was tugging at him, pulling him back toward the surface. He crashed through another layer of thin glass, sending ripples throughout his body, jolting reminders of living, breathing, and bleeding. Breaking through the next layer brought awareness of extreme pain, and he found himself trying to claw his way down to no avail. Luckily a veil of numbness fell with the next layer, and then the rest of the senses began falling into place. The ground was gritty. He could hear again, and he heard so much painful groaning that he was almost afraid to open his eyes, when a million blurs slowly began to focus. Colours poured in until there was a starry sky above him, and greens and browns flooded the peripheral.

Vrór realized that his mouth was open, and the groans were his. He quickly shut his lips, and ground his teeth together to keep himself silent as he adjusted his mind to this rediscovered awareness of his body, and all the aches and pains that went with it. His breath huffed and puffed out of him, and next he tried to regulate it. But his heart was beating, blood was pumping, air moved in and out of him, so his mind could move on to the more complex parts of his consciousness.

Why in Middle-earth does my head hurt so bloody badly? he wondered.

Khamir and Adnan

When the young boy Kwell delivered the message that Lindir called for the able-bodied men, to bring them together for planning, Adnan immediately began to rise. Khamir laughed, and reached out to place a hand on the boy’s chest, pushing him softly back down. It still did not take much force; the younger man was clearly still quite weak.

“You may be all patched up as best as you can be,” the one-armed man told his young friend, “but you’ve lost a lot of blood. Moving around is going to push your recovery back even further.”

Adnan let out a frustrated growl, and Khamir grinned at him. “With that spirit, as long as you resist any foolishness, you’ll be back to fighting the baddies again in no time.” The older Southron was still a little surprised at how optimistic he could be, and how playful, but it had become clear to him that Adnan was bringing out a lot of qualities in him that he stubbornly admitted he liked.

‘Taking care’ of the young man was good for him, and kept his mind off of his own pain, physical and otherwise. The boy was living and breathing, and regardless of how he appeared, fairly happy. Others were not so…lucky? Was it really just that Reagonn and Zaki and Tareef and so many others were unlucky? They were sacrifices, he decided. It sounded cold, but it meant much to him.

Sacrificing for others was something he was never good at. It had always been most important to him that he live. It was his life, and it was all he had, and…it was his. But now he realized that because it was his it was also his to give. Perhaps Reagonn and the others had not planned or wanted to give their lives, but they had all chosen to risk them. That was sacrifice. Not anything glamorous or extravagant, not even a deep emotional decision to make.

Maybe it was just…for a moment you forgot – it was a moment of insanity.

Khamir had not thought of his life only because he did not have time to, with all the other faces that filled his head and his heart with concern. And looking at Adnan, battered but alive, he could smile, he could even feel proud. They had accomplished much this night. And it was not quite over. Khamir slowly rose, keeping his teeth clenched to not let a sound out.

“What about you?” Adnan demanded angrily.

The one-armed Southron placed his hand on the boy’s head and ruffled his hair. Adnan sneered. “I’m bigger than you still,” he said teasingly, “I have more blood.” With teeth clenched he limped over toward Lindir where the others were beginning to gather. It made little sense to Adnan, but he was for once not in the mood to argue much. He about pounded at the ground with his fist, but luckily stopped himself before using his…partial hand, as he thought of it. He looked down at the bandaged mass, and marveled at how he could not feel that anything was missing. Of course, he could not feel much of anything at all.

When he heard some very low, gruff grunts and groans from nearby, Adnan pushed himself up further as best he could to look around. He noticed a large object moving beneath a blanket, and soon recognized from the greying orange hair that it was the very short…man, or whatever he was, named Vrór, who he had helped carry to safety. Was he awake? Did that mean he was going to be alright? His heart jumped as his eyes darted around. Had anyone else noticed? What if the small man needed help, needed water, or…

“Athwen!” he called, “Miss Athwen! Somebody! It’s Vrór!” Hopefully the healer had time to see him, at least, to make sure he did not need anything immediately, whatever that anything might be.

[Child of the 7th Age]

A small brown thrush, a bird rarely seen in Mordor, angled his way across the heavens, heading back towards the camp where his journey had begun. Aiwendil was so intent on rejoining his companions that he almost missed the handful of riders approaching from the west. They had been riding hard but were now stopped for a moment of rest. Curious about the men, the thrush flew in that direction and flitted down to perch on a nearby crag of tumbled boulders. The cliffs rose straight up from the plains and totally encircled the land, making a kind of small canyon where travelers could take shelter from the wind and weather. Aiwendil was close enough to hear the men and see what they were doing. He immediately recognized them as the last bedraggled remnant of the once proud band that had attacked their camp earlier that day. The istar let out a sigh. If these were the final men left alive, as they appeared to be, then his companions had prevailed, and the people were safe.

The riders were arguing among themselves; one stood up and drew out a dagger waving it menacingly in the other’s face. They had decided to go back and retrieve their belongings but there was more than that at stake. Aiwendil caught snatches of heated conversation about a chest stored in the captain’s tent reputed to contain many gold and silver coins. Even in these outlying parts, gold had real value, and a stash of money would make a wonderful resource to help fund the settlement on the Plains of Gorgoroth.

Aiwendil considered what to do. He did not want these men to continue on and remove the chest before Lindir made it over with the scouts. Yet the istar was bone weary. He had risen at dawn and spent the past seven hours in the midst of battle and giving chase over the plain. Home in Valinor, Aiwendil could switch from thrush to lion and even to giant eagle in the merest flash of an eye. But here, inside the bounds of Middle-earth, things were not so easy. His incarnate shape, that of an older man, was subject to the same pains and weariness as any other mortal. In order to chase off the slavers, he would have to appear as a large and threatening animal, something he could not presently do. It was not a lack of will or knowledge. He simply did not have the energy required for such a task.

He tilted his head to one side and tried to think, but, whether it was the limitations of the small thrush brain or the simple weariness from which the istar suffered, no good ideas came to mind. He was almost ready to admit defeat when he felt the vibrations throb beneath the rocks. He listened and caught the same ominous noise that he had heard before when the great hunters had passed him by. This time, however, the sound was amplified a hundredfold, as if an army of a thousand men was on the move and heading in their direction.

From that point on everything happened very quickly. The small bird fluttered his wings and flew as high as he could go. A band of trolls was approaching the spot where the men were now deep in conversation. This was no small hunting party but an organized army that was racing forward in tight formation. Finally awake to their danger, the slavers scattered in panic and tried to scramble on their horses, but were not quick enough to escape the stone soldiers who rushed forward with pikes and axes. The slaughter took only a few moments and was far more devastating in its ferocity than anything Aiwendil had witnessed earlier in the grove.

As the last ounce of his strength receded, the small bird plummeted back to earth and landed in a soft heap of feathers. One moment there was a thrush, the next an old man rubbing his eyes, struggling to rise. Aiwendil was trapped inside his body. Too weary to take on any other form, he ran and hid beneath the overhang of the rock cliffs. The army of trolls ground to a halt while the leader barked out orders in the black tongue. Aiwendil peered warily from behind his enclosure. To his dismay and puzzlement, the group was setting up camp. He wondered why they did not travel at night as was customary for their kind. Then he remembered. These were no ordinary trolls but olog-hai, completely immune to the hot rays of the sun. Apparently, they had decided to sleep through the night and continue on the next morning. With a groan, the old man buried his head in his hands. He was trapped within the canyon with no way to get out until the brutes resumed their journey. He sank down defeated on the ground.

_______________

[Child of the 7th Age]

As darkness descended over the plain, all those who could manage to walk made their way to the central firepit to discuss what should be done. Lindir already had several large kettles of soup simmering so that those in attendance could help themselves and carry provisions back to the others in buckets and pots after the meeting was ended.

Although the slavers had been defeated, victory had come at a price. There was protracted discussion in hushed tones about brave friends who had been lost and the many who now lay injured. The latter would require some time to heal before the group could resume its journey northward.

It was Lindir who first suggested that a party of scouts be dispatched to the slavers' camp to retrieve usable supplies: "We would need ten or twelve to ride over," he noted, "They would leave in the morning and get a look at whatever was left behind. Last time we were there I had Aiwendil check. The camp was fairly well provisioned. He turned up stockpiles of food, barrels of ale, and basic items like blankets and tools. All that could be helpful for the journey and even to establish the settlement."

"But how will a small party carry back so much?" Beloan queried. "Plus, there is the danger of running into those who were not killed but ran away from the battle."

Lindir nodded in response. "It is a danger. We'll must travel armed. Still, only a handful of slavers lived to run off, and I don't expect they'll be looking for a fight. But we will need to keep our guard up and also leave some able bodied fighters here to keep an eye on things, just in case. As far as getting things back here, we are in luck. Aiwendil found one large wagon that the slavers had that could be used to transport the supplies. And once those items have been distributed to families or placed in sacks and tied onto the backs of horses, we could use the wagon to help carry anyone who is still gravely injured once we start our northward trek."

Beloan reflected for a moment and added, "We'll need animals then, as many as we can muster. I thought so. There are a number of horses still loose on the plains. I've already had several of my men out searching for them. Those same men will rise early and round up the last of the strays for the use of the scouts. But they won't be coming with us. They will be staying behind to help guard the camp."

"Good planning. Dorran and Athwen also are staying here. Neither of them will be fighting or guarding but, should any problems arise, your men can get with them, to make decisions. Have your men set up a rotating watch on the perimeter just to make sure we get no surprises. As to when the scouts leave, there is no rush. We can take our time getting off. But I don't want to leave that camp sitting unguarded any longer than one night. I'll be riding with the scouting party and you too I hope." Lindir glanced over at Beloan who indicated his agreement. Then the elf looked around the circle and added, "What I need now are volunteers, preferably those who could manage on the back of a horse. Anyone who is gravely wounded must remain behind in camp." Lindir smiled wryly. "Indeed, if Athwen finds out that some of you have dragged yourselves over to this circle, I expect to see her here any minute demanding that you retreat back to your pallets for rest, and frankly she will be right. Before the meeting started, I managed to draft five strong, able bodied fighters who will act as our guard on the trail should any problems arise....Gall, Tomba, Grell, Drindl, and Bor." He nodded in their direction and then added, "But I will need others. I know there are a few of you who would like to come with the scouting party, despite the fact that you bear minor injuries. I will not say no. Right now very few in this camp are totally sound, aside from a handful of women and children who did not fight and managed to avoid the attack in the grove. If you do want to come along, just make sure you have enough strength for the ride. Who then should I add to the list?"

A babble of voiced was quickly raised by those sitting around the circle, some men and women posing questions and others asking to be included among the scouts. Within a short span of time, Lindir has accumulated his list of volunteers, "This looks to be it." he noted, calling out the names of those who had agreed to go, "Azhar, Shae, Johari, Kwell, Qat, along with Beloan and myself, and the five that I already mentioned. That makes twelve in all, which should be enough if things get tight. We'll set the funeral pyre ablaze later tonight and say our goodbyes to our friends. After that, those of you who are going should get a good night's sleep and meet back here by mid-morning when we'll parcel out the horses. The rest of you will have plenty to do while we are gone, helping to tend the sick and prepare things for the road."

Lindir stood up to leave but then hesitated a moment and turned back with one final comment. "Everyone in this camp has much to be proud of. You fought as though you'd been doing it your entire life. As tough as things are now, let's not forget that we've come a long way. If the winds of chance blow fair, we will be moving north and reaching the new settlement in the space of only a few weeks. There is a life waiting ahead, a life you can be proud of, if we can just pull together on the journey."

The elf turned and walked away from the circle, when Azhar ran up to him and tugged on his sleeve, "Lindir, what's happened to Aiwendil? I have not seen him at all since the battle in the grove."

"I am not sure. I wish I knew. But Aiwendil has a way of disappearing and then turning up again, so let's hope that he will do so soon." What Lindir did not tell the young girl was that he could not even sense the istar's expected presence in his mind no matter how hard he searched, a fact that was both puzzling and troublesome.