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

[Firefoot]

Grask had been napping in the shade beneath one of the wagons - a nice, out of the way spot, as he thought - when he was woken by the sounds of hoofbeats and voices. At first he was afraid, thinking that the slavers had returned and now he was trapped beneath one of their wagons in mid-day.

But their voices did not sound like the slavers' voices. They were quieter, more furtive, and they seemed to have stopped rather than dispersing into the camp.

As quietly as he could, Grask crept to the edge of the wagon and looked out. The angle was awkward, and he could only see the riders' backs, but it became quickly clear that these were not, in fact, the slavers. For one thing, there appeared to be females among them, which struck Grask as peculiar. More importantly, he realized that the two who were riding double were the man-children who had disappeared from the pit. They were alive! Grask did not know why this should make him so happy, but it did. They did not frighten him, and their presence made him also fear the rest of the group less.

Now one of them spoke, the male child. Grask thought he was mishearing. Kill them, he'd said! And then a woman's voice spoke, and she agreed with him! Grask began to tremble with both fear and anger. Hadn't Grask tried to help the pair in the tunnel? Hadn't he? And the boy said kill them! And if they would kill these Orcs in their drunken sleep, he knew that they would not stop at killing him, if he was found. He could not be found here! He backed away and in his agitation missed the gentle words of the female child. He crawled out from under the wagon on the side opposite these merciless Men. It was only a short dash to the cover of vegetation; Grask took a deep breath and ran, his feet making only the slightest noise on the dusty ground. Within seconds he was vanishing into the vegetation. They mustn't find him. Without really thinking about his direction, he headed for the Orc-camp. Perhaps the females would be there; they seemed to have disappeared from the slavers' camp quite some time ago. They ought to be told of this, Grask thought, especially if all their males were to be killed in their sleep... but not Ishkur, Grask hoped. He had not been drunk like the others. The thought of this Orc who had shown him some kindness almost made Grask turn and go back - hadn't he said that he might need Grask's help someday? - but he continued on his path. He would tell the females first, and then maybe he would go back.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Hold your swords! Johari, Kwell. Azhar is right. Put the weapons down." Lindir did not speak loudly, but his tone and look brooked no hesitation. He quickly went on to give a series of orders. "Unsheath your daggers and get the heavy rope we brought. Bind them all and throw them into the pit where you were imprisoned earlier. Get others to help you." He nodded directly at Kwell and then explained at greater length. "We'll keep them chained to the wall so they can't escape through the hole in the pit. We need these orcs alive. For all we know, they're an advance party coming through for a great troop of soldiers. If we slay them, we may doom ourselves to not knowing that. Work quickly and quietly so they do not awake until they are well bound."

He walked up to the halfling and spoke, "Carl, get someone to help you bring rocks and debris to plug up the hole in the back of the cave. We don't want them doing what we managed to do. And could two of you go out and search the plains around the camp to see if there are more orcs nearby?"

Lindir had heard the hesitation underlying Azhar's plea. He felt little different than she did. Running through an enemy who was asleep in bed was something he preferred not to do. He assumed the orcs were enemies. What else could they be? But there was no declared war, and these particular orcs had done them no damage. He could not simply slay them without warning or provocation. And the need to gain information was not just a ruse. Orcs generally travelled in large bands. If these few were here, there were undoubtedly others somewhere close by, and they needed to find out that information.

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

Makdush barked back at Gwerr, "Shut your mouth. I can't see." Taking a few strides forward and pushing the overhanging limbs of a neaby scrub tree away from his face, he stared down at the western fringes of camp, standing perfectly still on the ridge. The men in the distance were not looking in his direction and seemed totally absorbed in what they were doing. He was too far away to make out the words that were passing between the riders but the scene in front of him was not hard to decipher.

He called over to Gwerr and Iskhkur, "Good thing we got out of there. They've found the others. They're still dead to the world."

"Dead? They're dead? They've killed them." Ishkur muttered a curse under his breath.

"No, you moron. Not dead....still sleeping. They must be drunk as all get out. Actually," and here Makdush grinned broadly, "these riders must have hearts of mush. I'd have run the sleeping idiots through by now. They are standing around arguing with each other."

"They haven't killed them yet?" Gwerr sounded as if he couldn't believe his own ears.

"No. Two have unsheathed their weapons but do not strike. They keep babbling at the mouth. They can't agree on something. What fools!" Makdush added under his breath, unable to comprehend why anyone would hesitate to kill in such a situation. The Uruk thought a moment and then suggested, "Maybe they're not running them through because they plan to torture them later and find out about their companions." This was not a pleasant thought.

Ishkur shrugged his shoulders. "Could be. At least they're still alive. But who can figure out men. Worse than Elves, I say. Maybe it's the soft hearted women who can't bear seeing blood."

Makdush shook his head, "I don't think so. One of those holding a sword is a woman. Oh, yeah, not only have these fools brought women with them, it looks as if they've dragged along one of their little brats."

At these revelations, Ishkur looked totally shocked. What kind of warriors would do such a thing?

Makdush turned back towards the camp. This time it was his turn for shock. "By the bloody eye of Sauron! The one stopping them from striking isn't a man. Too tall to be a man, even a man of Gondor. It's an elf." The Uruk spat on the ground and fumed, "Elves....I hate them. Every stinking headache has an elf at the other end."

"Well, at least they're alive," countered Ishkur. "We still have a chance. Any sign of the women and the brats."

Makdush shook his head, "No, I can't see them in camp. Someone needs to go out and check the area."

"I'll do that." Ishkur countered. He turned to leave the grove, still leading the horse behind him, but not before stopping for one instant to confide something in Gwerr's ear.

"Watch your rear!" Makdush grunted as Ishkur left. "Looks as if they're sending out a party to look for us."

[Tevildo]

Azhar's eyes widened as she watched their party spring into action, carrying out the orders that Lindir had laid down. She could not tell from the look on Kwell and Johari's faces whether they were still upset or were content to go along with what the Elf had said. Personally, she felt relieved. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with the orcs. Even their looks repulsed her. But neither was she comfortable running them through with a sword while they lay asleep on the ground.

She slipped over beside Lindir and spoke quietly to the elf, "Thank you. I hadn't thought about other orcs being in the area. I just didn't feel comfortable slaying a sleeping orc when he had never done us any actual harm. But do you think that there are more of them?" She gazed nervously out towards the plain, her eyes sweeping the horizon, and shuddered slightly before she spoke again. "Lindir, if there are more of them, what would we do? And what if they come upon the spot where our main camp lies? Maybe we should leave to go back and warn the others."

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Can you handle a wagon?"

Azhar looked up puzzled at the question Lindir had posed to her. "A wagon?" she echoed.

"Yes. Have you ever driven a wagon before? Could you harness up a brace of horses to a good sized cart?"

Azhar frowned, reflected a minute, and then replied. "I think so. I did not have to work in the fields. But the overseers often asked me to run errands and bring out loads of supplies."

"Good. Get one of the other men to help. Have him bring along his horse. Walk over to the far side of camp. You'll see the slavers' wagon sitting near the campfire. I was going to use it to convey the supplies back to our main camp. Now it will serve a different purpose. Hitch up the horses and start driving west. I need you to return to the others as quickly as you can. Once you're there, speak with Athwen and Dorran to explain what has happened."

Lindir stared off in the distance, as if searching for something, before turning back to explain, "The plain truth is I can't answer your questions. I don't know why these orcs are here. Orcs travel in gangs. That's how they live, and that's how they are controlled. It's easier to influence a mob than someone standing off by himself who's able to think on his own. Sauron and even Morgoth before him made sure that none of the orcs ran off to grab anything of their own. Being an orc means blindly following the group. You have to keep your mouth shut and do what you're told. You can't think too much and never, never separate yourself from the gang. Some Elves used to say there was a tiny bit of goodness left even in orcs. A few orcs still dreamed of having lodgings of their own out in the wilds where they could hunt and fish and thumb their noses at the bosses. Not a very lofty dream, mind you, but better than going around the countryside slitting throats. But I never met an orc with that dream, and, I do know orcs don't go roaming on their own." Lindir again stared off in the distance as if he was trying to find something.

"What does this mean?" Azhar prodded.

"Either these orcs were separated from their band and are looking for a second one to join, or they are the advance party for a large military troop making its way to or from Nurn. If they don't report back to their troop, the whole band will flood this area to find out what's happened, looking for blood. Orcs are lousy trackers, especially on a plain like this. They are as likely to stumble over to our main camp as they are to come towards us."

"Tell Dorran and Athwen these things. Tell them we must bring the two camps together. I thought of having us ride back and just desert this place. But this camp is better stocked and can be more easily defended than ours. Our best chance for safety is here. Have Athwen put the most severely wounded in the wagon. The rest must walk. Have them start tomorrow morning. They must not delay any longer than that."

"They're not going to like this," the girl objected.

"No, I don't suppose so. Athwen will be understandably concerned about having to move the wounded and the others so quickly. And Dorran..... Dorran will not be pleased that our new camp will have a pit full of living orcs. Be that as it may. I will not run through a sleeping man or orc when I have no declared war against him. As to getting further information out of these orcs, I have my doubts. I am not prepared to torture them, though I will try to put the fear or Mordor into their hearts. Orcs have strange beliefs about elves and perhaps we can use that to our advantage. But for now, we must get the others here. Run now, be careful, and may you come back safely."

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

It seemed to the hobbit that everyone was itching to do something about the orcs, and quickly. And being so, the search for a volunteer to help remedy the flaw in their lockhole, by means of filling it in, became unnecessary. For one of the settlers came forward directly, eager to lend a hand. It was a hand that Carl readily accepted, and together the two of them started for the dark mouth of the pit passing through the camp as silently as they could.

But when they came to a spot were it appeared some smithy had been at work, Carl motioned the settler to go on ahead. Then walking gingerly around the lengths of heavy chain that were stretched out on the ground, he picked up one of the many hammers, and a metal rod as well. And seeing a torch also, he tucked it under his arm thinking that it no doubt would come in handy. Looking around one last time for any other useful items, he put a few more things in his pocket and left, quickly rejoining the man who stood waiting at the opening to the pit. Together they slipped down into the chamber and out of view.

“It was still the dank musty place that Carl recalled, but it was a good bit cooler than it was out in the sun, and as the hobbit reached in his pocket for the flint, he vaguely hoped that the torch would not give off too much heat. The retreating darkness revealed the man once again, as he turned around to examine the walls of the pit, casting a huge shadow behind him as he searched. “Looking for the hole? It’s down over there,” the hobbit said nodding toward the back of the pit where the stream still flowed.

“Under the water!” the man summized. “How are we to keep the stream from washing away our work? All we have to bar its way is sand and gravel!” He bent down to try and scratch the floor of the pit with very little success, while the hobbit watched.

“True, true. You have a point.” Carl admitted, scratching his head. “It’s no good building a dam if it’s bound to burst, now is it?” He took a deep breath as he thought wistfully of Vrór, certain that the dwarf could easily have found some simple solution that he had been overlooking. But suddenly a thought struck him, and his eyes sparkled brightly in the torchlight as a grin grew on his face. “You aren’t a feared of dark places now, are you?” he asked. The man gave a mock frown and shook his head. “Nor water...nor small spaces?” the hobbit pressed.

“Nay, they give me no cause to be afraid,” the man replied, wondering what the small fellow before him had in mind.

“I thought as much,” Carl declared merrily, as he wedged the torch in the rocky wall. “Here, heft me up and out of this hole. I’ve an idea.”

[piosenniel]

Back at the main camp....


Rôg was still somewhat sore from the encounter with the slavers. His ribs ached if he moved too quickly, but he could now at least take in a decent breath without sending sharp little stabbing pains ricocheting through his chest. It was his head that bothered him the most. The gash at the base of his skull had scabbed over; tender only when he prodded at it.

Something, though, seemed to have come loose in whatever gave him a steady bearing. If he stood too quickly, turned his head too fast, the world would begin to spin a bit, his vision become slightly unfocused. Dizziness followed....and if he tried to walk, his legs would go all wobbly as if his feet could not find a steady place to put themselves. As such, he had begun to use a broken off stave with which to hobble about.

He joked about it to the others who’d stayed behind when the scouting party had gone out. ‘It’s like the old-wives saying,’ he’d tell whoever asked about his new reliance on the stick. ‘Four legs in the morning; two legs in the afternoon; three in the evening.’ Then laughing, he’d add, ‘Of course, with Athwen’s good ministrations I’m hoping time will turn back on itself soon and I’ll be able to walk about as before.’

I hope, at least, that will be the case! he often thought to himself. He could not imagine how he might manage a shape-change. The idea of some dizzy bird trying to fly, much less land somewhere dismayed him. And should there be another attack....A grimly funny picture ballooned in his mind. A large something....oliphaunt, perhaps – looking fierce, intimidating, even; for the briefest of moments. And then it would begin to wobble and totter; its eyes going all googly. The foe would begin to snicker and laugh....

Ah well....maybe they would laugh themselves silly and fall off their horses. He shook his head and laughed a little himself.Or maybe, I could just fall on them....

Laughter bubbled up at this conjured picture and he lost his balance as he shook his head again. Rôg crumpled down onto the dirt, his stick skittering away to the side. Others, he knew, would be looking at him rather oddly. Still chuckling, he sat up, brushing the dust from himself as best he could.

[Undómë]

“Hssst! Quiet, now!”

Mazhg gathered her sister close as they crouched in the underbrush where they’d been resting. Through the spaces in the leafy overgrowth of the bushes which gave them some semblance of shelter they watched; their dark brown eyes darting furtively at the loud intruders.

It was an oddly assorted group that had come clattering into the area where the males lay in their drunken stupor. Males . . . and female, too . . . all ahorse. A kind of raggedy looking bunch. But still, they were armed and they were Men.

And there was that tall one, bossy seeming, who looked particularly menacing . . .

“Keep still!” Mazhg whispered low in Zagra’s ear. “There’s nothing we can do for that drunk lot.” The sisters hunkered even lower among the leafy bushes. “I’ll keep you safe." As she circled Zagra’s shoulders in an assuring hug with one arm, her free hand was grasped tightly about the oaken handle of the sharp-edged spade beside her