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

[piosenniel]

‘Why, it’s lovely!’ Rôg brushed some of the grime from what remained of the hair clasp, smiling at the intricate working of the silver filigree. A few more swipes of his sleeve revealed the pale blue color of the stone set in it. He smiled at its loveliness imagining it set against a women’s raven hair....or then again, against some golden tresses. He wondered idly how the Elf had managed to keep this from her captors.

His countenance clouded, a growing sense of horror shifting the lovely scene to one of complete repulsion. Her captors! What had happened to her beneath their cruel handling? What foul hands of Orc and Men had sought to sully her beauty, her spirit? And what had happened to her in the end, he wondered, recalling the sisters’ talk of her in the long-past tense.

He narrowed his eyes, raising them up from this little piece of beauty to the figures of the two Orcs who sat by him. And how is it that the lady had managed in the midst of what must have been nearly beyond bearing to her to reach out to these two?

Rôg rubbed the little pretty thing against the front of his tunic, removing as he did so a few more willing layers of dirt. ‘She must have been lovely....’ He spoke low, his voice a bit husky as he passed the precious trinket back to Zagra.

‘You know, I do remember that song! I first heard it far in the north. Near the mountains and the river where the Wood Elves live.’

He closed his eyes and began to sing, interspersing the Elvish and the Common Speech. His voice, a pleasant, if plain, tenor, was hesitant at first and then grew more confident.

A Bereth thar Ennui Aeair!
O Queen beyond the Western Seas!

Calad ammen i reniar
O light to us that wander

Mi 'aladhremmin ennorath.
Amid the tree-woven lands of Middle-earth.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel
O Elbereth Star-kindler

I chin a thûl lín míriel...
Your eyes and breath are like shining jewels...

[Durelin]

Vrór

Vrór nodded silently at Carl’s words, not sure what was left to say, especially as tired as he was and with so many thoughts filling his head. He watched Ina and Gwella, combinations of fear and anger disturbing him, along with wonder and guilt. He also looked back to the pit and watched as the adult orc who had helped in the rescue was pulled up from the pit by the men. He watched as one young man took the orc by the arm – and slippery as it was he held his grip – to help him out the rest of the way, while the other men simply observed, clearly uncertain.

Uncertain, uneasy was exactly how Vrór felt. He was afraid of what might come of all this, whether or not it was a peaceable outcome. He could only imagine how these men felt, slaves and inhabitants of Mordor, if not by their own choice, who had lived with orcs such as these even as their taskmasters. He was surprised by those who took it so well, such as the young man who helped the orc fully free himself from the pit by his own hand – Hadith, he believed his name was. It did seem the youths were having the easiest time interacting with the creatures. Perhaps he should not think of them as ‘creatures’, but it would be a hard habit to break.

“Clearly there is no longer the question of execution, but few if any will be as quick to…friendship…as Ina.” Vrór frowned. “I hope she does not become too attached to this ‘Gwella’…or Gwerr, was it?”

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Khamir

Khamir was prepared along with the others to pull the orc up. He still held onto the rope as the creature took hold of it, and for a moment or two he put his strength into his one arm and pulled with the other men behind him. But as he watched the orc’s face quickly grow closer, and found himself simultaneously drawn to its eyes and repulsed by the idea of looking into them, he let go of the rope. Khamir rose, glancing at Adnan as he did so that their eyes met, and took several paces toward where Athwen and others cared for the children, as if he wished to check on them.

The Southron saw then one of the children, a girl, her clothes still clinging to her from being saturated, holding hands with the orc child. Or an orc child. Was it even the same one, that had burst from hiding to interrupt the execution? How many were there of these things, hiding around their camp and now walking among them? Khamir turned sharply back to see the one male orc out of the pit. He was not even sure where the others were, or the women.

The children were huddled in blankets, men and women tending to them, helping to dry them off and sharing with them their body heat as the sun was becoming low on the horizon. The Dwarf and Hobbit sat together nearby, talking. Everyone was so calm. It was so quiet. Khamir wanted to scream.

Then he heard Beloan speak, raising his voice even though he specifically addressed only Gwerr. “Tell your companions that you are free to go, and that we will give you what supplies we can to help you on your own journey. And that I give you my word that we will not trouble you should we meet again.”

Khamir strode over to his old friend and grabbed him tightly by the shoulder, forcing him to face him. “Free to go? Just because they have not yet done us harm – and for a time that was only because we did not allow it! – that does not mean they will be so kind to others, especially any who travel in fewer numbers. They are orcs, Beloan, and you are parleying with them? You would help them?”

“They have helped us,” Beloan replied simply, his voice quieter. He seemed to look at his friend with sadness. It made Khamir feel ill. He turned from Beloan with anger and walked away.

Khamir walked a good distance beyond the southern edge of the camp, until finally he collapsed, as if from exhaustion. And he was exhausted – physically, he was tired, but the weariness went far beyond aching muscles. His very will had been extinguished. His will, his reason, his purpose had all been slowly disintegrated in a matter of days. His words no longer held any meaning to anyone, no one followed his judgment anymore. He had lost men, good men…

What had they set out for? A new life, a new beginning, away from the plantations, where they could labor only for their own sakes, their own nourishment and comfort. For the first time Khamir tried to imagine what his role would be in that new life, what he would do. He knew no craft, he could write but only very simply, he had physical strength but was without his right arm… He remembered how greatly his value as a slave had decreased after that orc’s act of blind anger. It had been punished, too. Khamir had been treated worse and worse from then on, as he was no longer really worth keeping alive.

Those orcs had given him nothing but scars, they had only taken away. And yet he lived to see his friend, his friend through it all, let creatures of Mordor walk away untouched, laden with gifts…

But he lived. For what, he no longer knew, but he lived.

[Firefoot]

Grask had been completely forgotten in all the chaos. He’d curled up in a ball by himself at the edge of the brush, cradling his broken arm against his thin body. His sobbing had mostly quieted, though an unbidden tear still sometimes leaked from his eyes. The cruel, cruel men, how they had hurt him! His arm was useless now, completely useless, and any movement would send another shock of pain straight through it.

But none of the rest of them cared. See how he had tried to stick up for Ishkur, yet Ishkur had no thought for him now. And the females, what did they care for just another young Orcling, nearly old enough to be counted among the men? And the Men - ! Grask’s eyes darkened at the thought. He was lucky they had not killed him straight out, and would be lucky again if they didn’t hunt him down now that the activity seemed to be dying out. It occurred to him to move deeper into the brush to hide, but he had neither the strength nor the will. He had not even fetched his short blade from where it had landed earlier when the big brute broke his arm. He had another, though. With just one blade, he was no worse off than he had been before they had stumbled across the Man-camp in the first place.

Contemplating these things, Grask at some point began to shiver, whether from shock, fear, or a sudden chill, or all three. But then, for some inexplicable reason, a soothing sensation came over him. Was that a song? Yes, a song, and far different than any he had ever heard. No Orc could sing like that. It must be one of the Men then… but that thought, rather than invoking more fear, brought only gentle peace to his young heart. Suddenly exhausted, Grask fell swiftly asleep, the song of the Elves in his ears.