Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

Child's post

Aiwendil peered intently in the direction Rôg had pointed. He could barely discern the shadowy outline of what appeared to be a young woman, enfolded in a great cloak and asleep on a mat drawn up near the foot of the bed on which her older patient lay. Relieved to find no one else in the tent, the small moth fluttered closer, alighting on a wooden stool that stood close by. Aiwendil slipped back into his original form, still supporting the staff on his lap and bearing a leather pouch with herbs and potions that had been slung over his shoulder.

Aiwendil glanced quickly from one woman to the other. The striking resemblence between the two suggested they were kinfolk, quite possibly mother and daughter. From the taut look on the younger woman's face and the damp rag draped through her splayed fingers, Aiwendil suspected that she had crumpled to the mat exhausted from her bedside nursing vigil and had immediately fallen into a deep slumber.

The istar quietly approached and, leaning over, placed his hands on either side of the older woman's brow. He hesitated for a moment, uncertain what to do. Then he glanced upward, hoping that he could see Rôg somewhere nearby and gain some reassurance from the presence of a friend. But the tiny bird was nowhere to be seen.

Aiwendil's skills as a healer had been learned long ago in the household of Yavanna where he had tended the birds and beasts that dwelt within the golden gardens. More recently, he had practiced those same skills in the forests of Mirkwood working with a host of different animals, but he had little experience or knowledge to draw upon when dealing with Men. Cautiously, he let his mind inch outward to meet with hers. The old man met no resistence to his gentle probing, but neither did he feel an answering response.

Still, it was not difficult to do. He probed a bit deeper and, skirting around the welter of tormented hallucinations that afflicted the woman's mind, was able to catch the name by which she went and glean some idea of who she was. He reached out again to initiate more intimate contact, but drew back suddenly when he sensed how precariously she lay suspended between the forces of life and death. Her fea was like a pitiful candle that had burnt dangerously low, whose tiny flame might flicker and die at any moment. There was painfully little he could do to help a mortal who lay so close to the realm of Mandos.

A cursory outward examination of Ayar did nothing to allay his fears. Aiwendil could see the inflamed wound on the back of Ayar's neck through which the poison had entered her body. With a sigh, the istar turned to his bag of herbs and potions. He could not stop the inevitable course of the drug, but perhaps he could soften some of the pain and even draw the woman back to consciousness so that she might speak with her family one last time. First, he administered a tincture of poppies, the bright red flower that can bring gentle respite from pain. Then he probed deep within Ayar's mind, looking for ways to draw her back from her nightmare visions so that she might again see and speak with those around her.

Just as the old man sat back on the stool from his work, tired and less careful than he should have been, the staff lying across his lap slipped loose and clattered noisily downward, hitting a large silver pot in which incense burned, then bouncing off and thudding to the ground. The young woman sleeping at the foot of the bed stirred in her sleep, then sat up abruptly, focusing shocked eyes on this unbelievably tall stranger who now sat no more than two feet away. Narika half-stifled a scream, then willed herself to gain control. In an instant she had changed from human to eagle form and, half thrashing her way through the tent's smokehole, rose up on sturdy wings high above the encampment to sound the alarm that one or more dangerous strangers were in their midst.

Aiwendil hastily considered whether it wouldn't be wise to shift shapes himself and make a speedy retreat from this settlement. However, something inside his head inconveniently whispered that this was not the right thing to do. He quickly retrieved his staff and leapt to his feet, standing to face the entrance of the tent and preparing for the inevitable assault. The tent flap was suddenly drawn back from the outside so that he could see a party of maenwaith in human form, all carrying arms of various types. At the front of the group stood one who was obviously their leader, his eyes full of fury as he prepared to lunge forward and avenge the woman he loved whose tent had been violated by this unknown intruder.

For a moment, everything hung suspended as Thorn drew back his weapon and prepared to strike. Then, from the rear of the tent, a familliar voice cried out a plaintive warning. Struggling to sit up amid the tangled bedclothes, still weak and pitifully ill, Ayar called out commanding her people, "Wait! Do not harm him. He is a friend....."

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Pio’s post – Rôg

Rôg kept his eye firmly fixed on Aiwendil as he fluttered down toward the stricken woman and then changed back to mannish form. ‘Hurry up!’ he muttered to the figure below, his piping admonition blown away in the night’s breeze. Only the younger woman who sat drowsing near the sickbed remained of the tableau he had seen earlier. ‘Hurry, old man! The clansman I saw may come back,’ he called out softly again.

There was no response and naught to do but get closer to his companion and hasten him along. With a small leap he jumped down, aiming for the cowl of Aiwendil’s robe. He had landed, but barely, when the clatter of the old man’s staff rang loud against the metal of some pot and a loud, high pitched scream filled the small area followed by the rush of wings upward. Aiwendil rose up quickly tensing himself for the expected assault, and in doing so jostled poor Rog’s precarious grasp on the neckline of the robe. The young man fell willy-nilly down inside the material covering the old man’s chest. His six legs scrabbled wildly to find purchase and turn himself upright. Climbing quickly to the edge of the neckline, he peeked over, antennae waving wildly at the sound of running feet and loud cries approaching the tent.

‘Well here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into,’ he hissed up at Aiwendil as the tent flap was thrown back and the armed men entered. One of them, the fellow that Rôg had spied previously in the tent, raised his sword preparing to charge. The young man’s eyes bugged out and he crept along the collar’s rim to hide beneath the old man’s hair.

As he waited for the inevitable blow to fall, a commanding voice from behind called out. Silence followed, and Rôg rubbed his wings in a nervous, rapid rhythm as the moment stretched out.

‘Thorn!’ cried one of the male voices that had entered. ‘I’ll be a billy-goat’s uncle if you don’t hear it . . . but isn’t the old guy’s hair chirping . . .’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Thorn & Surinen

Thorn was troubled when he left the tent, striding through the night to see if the guards had discovered any new signs in the deep darkness. Troubled that Ayar showed no signs of improvement from the many tinctures and infusions that his sister had continued to send, troubled that Surinen had not yet returned, and that in continually tending to her mother, he was doubly concerned that Narika had not allowed herself the rest she needed to meet the demands of either mother or clan. And though he had tried many times he could not persuade her to do otherwise. Still she sat close by Ayar in the dimness, through the weary and bleak hours of the evening.

So it had been when Thorn left them, but now in the pitch black of night, a scream was heard across the camp and the heavy beat of an eagle wings circling low over the encampment once, twice, three times, shrieking all the while before leading those to responded quickly to the well known tent that lay at its hub. There were only very few in the clan who knew the eagle’s ways intimately. And this bird, this voice Thorn knew well. Together they had winged many hours above the desert, enjoying the thermals of the mountains, gliding over the cliffs in their less burdened days. But now her cry invoked a surge of fury within him.

Without taking his leave, and without biding the guards to follow, Thorn sprang into motion at that sound, his taut nerves rebounding as he anticipated the worst. Running across the packed sand, without stopping he grabbed the first lance he came to, holding it poised over his shoulder in warning for all to see as he ran for the leader’s tent. His heart pounding by the time he finally cast it aside, and drawing his sword threw back the tent flap intending to pierce the first stranger he found there, pinning him to the ground he stood upon. Poising himself to strike down this intruder, Thorn noticed movement behind the elderly man he was met with. Ayar was struggling to raise herself up upon her elbows.

“Wait!” she said in a commanding voice. “Do not harm him, He is a friend….”

Thorn hesitated, wanting to obey the direction of his leader, but questioning her presence of mind. She might not know of what she spoke, and a delay might prove costly. But then this stranger made no attempt to defend himself or escape. Thorn slowly lowered his sword seeing that the guards had followed him into the tent.

From behind him he heard a familiar voice saying “I’ll be a Billy-goat’s uncle if you don’t hear it…but isn’t the old guy’s hair chirping?” Indeed the old man did appear to be chirping somehow. But Thorn did not allow himself to be distracted, amusing as it was.

"Who are you, old man? And what is your business with us, that you should enter unannounced and unaccompanied?" Thorn shouted sharply. "It is late and do you not see there is great sickness in this tent? Why have you not approached those outside, instead of troubling the ill and the sleeping?" Pausing expectantly, Thorn waited for some plausible explanation, but the elderly man gave none, and only rubbed his jaw carefully as if lost in thought behind the bright blue eyes that had stared at this fierce show, considering what might be done. After a few long moments, Thorn grew impatient and demanded again, "What are you doing in our camp? Should I know you?"

"That is the question," the old man finally sighed leaning heavily on his staff as he glanced from Thorn to Ayar and back again, waving absently at an insect that could be seen for a moment apparently intent upon the old man’s ear. Thorn didn't know what to make of this old man…this tall, albeit bent, foreigner -no doubt a grandfather many times over - who stood before him. He had as much of a threatening air as a child who accidentally spills a jar of water and stares at those who would reprimand him not guessing the seriousness of it.

But seeing now that Ayar was still awake and had managed now to sit up weakly in her bed, Thorn softened. "Which is the question? I have asked you many questions!"

"The question? 'Why am I here?' That is the question. To help… I've come to try and help her ", he said gesturing toward the bed were Ayar was seated among her cushions intently watching the proceedings. “Surely, she needs help? Is it not so?"

“Yes, this is so.” Nodding subtly toward the leather pouch the old man carried, Thorn changed his line of questioning, "But what have you done? What tonic have you given her that she is now awake and relieved in her illness?” But even before these words had left his mouth, Thorn heard someone hailing him from outside the tent, and turning, he saw that many tanned faces where now peering in the tent opening, jostling one another for a better view. And through these as well as the ring of those armed, quickly pushed a wiry man with curling black hair. Once perceiving the stranger so close to his leader, this maenwaith slowed in his purpose, growing wary, with rapidly changing expression.

“What is it Surinen?” Thorn heard Narika ask as she followed him into the tent working her way through the throng to her mother’s side. Surinen looked the stranger up and down, reluctant to answer.

“It is alright, you may speak,” Thorn encouraged his friend, watching Narika to see if she appeared to be hurt.

“We have found a camp site outside our borders.”

“Are there others to be found aside this one that we have here?” Thorn asked.

“No, we have found no one else,” the outrider replied slowing walking up to the old man who was chirping very loudly at this point. Surinen sniffed the air, his eyes widening as a smile returned to his face. He bowed slightly to the old man. “But there is one other we have not seen, or so it would appear,” he said over his shoulder to Thorn. “Excuse me grandfather, but I think you carry an acquaintance of my mine.” Slowly reaching out to pluck the cricket from his hair, the old man blocked him quickly with his staff. “That is alright, I can see you are acquainted as well. I will speak from here if it is all right…. Rôg? ” He said peering at the old man’s shoulder. “Rôg, I think that I have finally found your camel if you have indeed lost it. It is outside the tent just now.”

The scruffy old man shook out his arm, as if it has gone quite stiff, and looking up toward the smoke hole and the stars beyond, he took a slow deep breath. Surinen stepped back a pace, “I am sorry grandfather. I do not mean to crowd you. It is stuffy in here.”

But Thorn turned back to those gathered at the door, addressing them in the clan's dialect, saying, "We have two strangers in our midst tonight. And they shall be staying with us until such time we decide they are free to go. If they or any other is found drifting though the camp, they are to be dealt with strictly." Then speaking again to the elderly man he said, "I have told these people that you are not to leave or wander until such a time when we decide to let you. Do you understand this? It is for your safety as well as ours, for we are suffering the ill favor of some that would sorely harm us, and we cannot be overly careful."

The old man nodded, not meeting Thorn’s eyes, but looking to where the upturned pot of incense had smoldered and small yet lively flame grew dancing upon the edge of the grass mat.

[Mithadan]

Mithadan and Airefalas walked quickly through a small crowd which stood swaying and clapping as a musician performed. Then they dodged quickly into a dark alley where they paused to remove the extra knives from their bags and cloaks and slip them into their belts. Airefalas stepped carefully from the alley into the wider street, looking both ways before motioning for Mithadan to follow. The road led roughly to the north and they moved rapidly along, keeping to the shadows.

In the late evening, the market was a sea of darkness, lit at places by lanterns and fires where the locals were gathered for entertainment. Here and there, alleys branched off to the left and the right, some guarded by men with spears or clubs and others shadowy as a cloudy night. The Gondorians avoided the brightness of the lamps and fires, but skirted the pools of light closely enough so that they could see the people around them. It seemed to them as if everyone they passed paused to examine their clothing as if weighing whether they were a worthy target.

After several minutes, the road forked. They paused briefly to examine both routes. The road to the right seemed to continue on to the north while the way to the left took a westerly course. By silent agreement, they chose the fork towards the west and, they hoped, the docks. For a while, it seemed as if they had chosen well, but after a time, the road curved gradually to the left again. The islands of light grew fewer and farther apart as they moved along uncertainly. "We are heading south again," hissed Mithadan. "We must go back." Airefalas examined a narrow alley which led off to the right for a moment, then nodded in agreement. They turned and retraced their steps, only to find their progress blocked by three burly men. Each held a spear on one hand and a bottle in the other...

-------

Time seemed to fly at the docks, as Saelon peered out into the night. Duilin stood nest to him when he was not pacing the decks. "It is well after midnight," growled Duilin. "And our friends on the corsairs appear to be asleep. May strong drink bring them sound slumbers."

Saelon descended from the helm to the main deck and leaned on the rail while looking down at the docks. There was no sign of movement in the guards' tent either. He sighed. "We will wait a bit longer," he said nervously. "But we cannot wait long. The next shift of the guard will arrive in perhaps an hour or so. We cannot risk running afoul of their arrival."

"The Captain..." began Duilin.

"The Captain warned us not to wait," growled Saelon. "As he should. His first duty is to the crew as is ours. If we wait too long, we will be fighting on the docks against insurmountable odds in the morning. He has given us a chance. We must take it...soon."

The minutes passed faster than Saelon cared to think. Below decks, he could hear the tense murmurs of the crew as they awaited the order to depart. But at last, he knew he could wait no longer. "Bring the next set of 'deliveries' to the corsairs and the docks," he instructed. "And Duilin, be quiet. If you run across anyone awake and asking questions, do not hesitate. Kill them if you have to..."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aewindil nodded and shrugged his shoulders, mumbling a few words of reassurance that he had no intention of trying to wander off from camp. The istar wondered if Rôg would show the same good sense, but kept his doubts to himself. Out of the corner of his eye, the old man caught a glimpse of an overturned incense pot whose glowing cinders were just beginning to spill out over the mat. With all the excitement of the past few minutes, and the dark shadows that flickered and played along the walls of the tent, no one else had yet noticed that the pot had overturned.

Searching for an excuse to turn away and look at things more closely, Aiwendil hastily bent down to retrieve his leather pouch that he'd set on the floor shortly after he'd finished working with Ayar. He ran his eyes along the ground, noting that a tiny sheet of flame had already escaped from the pot of incense and was beginning to run silently along the mat of woven grass in the direction of Ayar's bed. For a moment Aiwendil did not react. He frequently had difficulties coping with the vagaries of life in Middle-earth and could not comprehend that something like this could be happening in the middle of someone's tent, especially when he was surrounded by a contingent of armed Men.

As realization set in, Aiwendil excitedly blurted out a warning in Quenyan, which no one in the room could understand, and lunged for the broom that the servant girl had left leaning against the chest where Ayar normally stored the family's clothes and linens. Seizing the broom and raising it high above his head, the istar brought it down authoritatively several times in a series of grand thumps, hoping to smother the flames and keep them from spreading. Unfortunately, the only thing he accomplished was to fan the blaze still further. The small leaping tendrils of fire caught hold of the old straw broom and began to shoot up even higher.

[piosenniel]

Rôg

‘I must remember not to ride on his shoulders all that much in these smaller forms.’ Rôg dug his little spiny feet into the fabric of Aiwendil’s robe as the old fellow shrugged his shoulders. He was beginning to feel a bit queasy as the waves of robe rose and fell.

There was a sudden drop in altitude as the old man bent down to retrieve something from the floor. Looking for a good place to hop off, Rog’s eyes took in the low sheet of flame that crept along the grass mat. Hundreds of tiny flames flickered across his multi-imaged vision, running like a small destructive river toward the ill woman’s bed. The cricket froze in place for a moment, his only thought to escape.

With a dizzying lurch the old man had now gotten to his feet and yelling out something in a strangled voice. The others in the room, brows now furrowed in confusion, looked at him in and uncomprehending manner, the warning lost on them. They don’t speak any Elvish tongues! Rôg shouted in a small chittery voice. The words were lost on Aiwendil who grabbed a nearby broom and began beating at the flames . . . to no avail. The greedy fire leapt onto the long, dry straw with a whoosh, sending smoke and little licks of hungry flame flying out to devour whatever they landed on. Shouts of alarm and the loud tumult of bodies moving in a disordered way through the growing smoke filled the tent.

With a leap born of fear, Rôg jumped in the direction of the head of the pallet where Ayar lay, her eyes wide at the scene in the tent. Assuming his mannish form he knelt near her and leaned in close to speak quietly in her own dialect. ‘Have no fear, Meldakhar,’ he assured her as best he might in his shaky voice. He pulled the thin sheet over her nose and mouth to hold out what smoke it would; then thrusting his arms beneath her frail body, he cradled her close against him and pushed out through the loose fabric at the rear of the tent. ‘Close your eyes. There will be fresh, sweet air soon,’ he murmured as if to a small child, reassuring himself as much as her.

There were shouts and the sound of feet running. Rôg had taken only a few steps away from the tent with his burden when a chorus of raised voices called out for him to stop. The angry men swirled about him, ringing him in, clubs and lances bristling . . .

[piosenniel]

Mus’ad and Nizar on the job at the Party

Mus’ad held his breath, offering a quick plea to some random patron spirit as he rolled the well worn bones. Across the hardpacked dirt of the alley, in the flickering light of two small torches just beyond the kitchen’s entrance, they skittered, bouncing off the rough stone wall of the compound and coming to a final rest just inches from the man’s toes.

‘Last time I ask you for help,’ Mus’ad muttered, casting one eye upward at the dark night sky.

He kicked out at the two offending coiled bush vipers who glared up with their malevolent carved eyes from the knucklebones. He spit on the ground and shook his head as the man he was playing against collected the few coins piled in the clay bet dish. Pouring himself another mug of wine from the skin the three kitchen-boys had brought out, he leaned against the scraggly tree that stood alongside the stone wall and watched another fellow pick up the dice to try his luck. The smell from the tray of left over savories brought out from the party enticed him. His belly grumbled in anticipation as his hand reached down and snatched up a few.

Some time later, a mug or two of wine and several handfuls of spiced pastries under his belt, and he felt ready again to try his hand at rolling the bones. His fingers, licked clean of crumbs, hovered just above the dice when he hear the worried nasal tones of his brother call out to him.

‘Did you see him?’ asked Nizar, ignoring the usual irritated look Mus’ad threw him as he stood up.

‘Why are you not in the Wolf’s house? Keeping watch on our friend, Tinar.’ Mus’ad whispered low in his brother’s ear. Wyrma had directed them to keep an eye on her young son, make sure he didn’t get into any trouble, or worse yet, get Herself and her precious plans in trouble.

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you!’ Nizar drew the ragged end of his neck scarf under his red, and dripping nose, eliciting a scowl from his brother. He had been in his dung-beetle form, the one he did most easily, and the dust from the curtains he’d hidden in had stuffed up his rather large nose, causing it to run.

‘Well . . . ?’ prompted Mus’ad, itching to get back to the dice game. One of the other players had picked them up and fortune must have smiled on his throw as he uttered a loud whoop of excitement.

Nizar related the events of the party, speeding up as Mus’ad’s eyebrows twitched in irritation. ‘. . . and then those two foreigners left . . . with Tinar following! . . . can you imagine that! . . .’ he finished up in a breathless rush.

Mus’ad’s head was beginning to throb. ‘Tinar . . . left?’ he squeaked out. Wyrma would have their heads if they didn’t find him. He rubbed ineffectually at his temples, his mind racing furiously to come up with a plan. He grabbed his brother’s shoulders and spoke slowly to him. ‘You go back to Wyrma’s place.’ He whispered the recent password to get past the many guards at Herself’s place, and had his brother repeat it a number of times until Mus’ad was satisfied it was imprinted on Nizar’s memory. ‘Tell her what Tinar has done and that I am following after him. Ask her if she has any instructions.’ Nizar stood nodding his head at his brothers list. ‘Where’m I gonna meet you if Herself has things she wants done?’

‘You said they went toward the markets. I’ll meet you at the booth that flies the scorpion flag.’ Nizar’s eyes lit up at the thought of the peppery delicacy. ‘We’re not meeting for dinner! Pay attention!’ Bring your news from Herself and we’ll go on from there . . .’ Mus’ad pushed his brother off in the direction of Wyrma’s place and turned in the direction of the marketplace.

‘Now just how would that young pup think to follow the foreigners?’ he thought as he trotted down the alleyway, making for the vendors’ place . . .

[Mithadan]

Saelon, Duilin and two other crewmembers slowly and carefully carried three large barrels down the gangplank of the Lonely Star. No cart would do for this delivery, for they could not risk the noise that wheels would make on the wooden planks. The first barrel they carried to the larger of the two corsairs, easing their burden quietly up the vessel's gangway. As they had suspected, the crew was fast asleep having imbibed deeply of the fiery drink they had delivered earlier. Stepping over a prone and snoring Southron, they deposited the barrel beside the rail facing the Star at about amidship.

The second barrel was similarly situated on the second corsair. During this delivery, a drunk and bleary-eyed sailor roused himself briefly to ask the Gondorians what they were about. A tense moment followed during which Saelon and Duilin rested their hands upon the blades of their knives while they explained that Captain Mithadan had instructed them to deliver wine for the following day. The besotted sailor nodded happily and rested his head on the deck. In a matter of minutes he was snoring again and the Gondorians were beating a hasty retreat from the corsair.

The third barrel was placed upon the docks just outside the tent that the guards had erected. Judging from the snores coming from within, a dozen barrels could have been delivered without rousing the guards, thought Saelon.

The men returned to the Star, pulling up the gangway once they reached its deck. "On my order, cut the lines," hissed Saelon. Then he looked forward to where other crewmen were positioned, ready to raise the ship's sails. He held up a finger, one minute, and looked down to the docks in hope of seeing Mithadan and Airefalas emerge from the shadows. But the docks remained silent and desolate. Reluctantly, he called three men forward. Each held a bow and arrows with oil-sodden cloths wrapped just behind the steel arrowheads. Each also held an unshuttered lantern with the wicks burning merrily. "Take your positions," Saelon whispered tensely.

As the bowman crawled to their spots, Saelon scanned the docks one last time. Then he signalled for the lines to be cut. A second wave directed the sails to be raised. The ship lurched as the breeze caught the billowing cloths and the bow of the Star swerved and struck the larger corsair with a loud crash. Voices rose in surprise and concern on the black ship as men were roused from their drunken slumbers. Then Saelon nodded to the bowmen even as he raced to the helm. Each lit an arrow and they raised their bows, drawing the strings back in smooth and practiced motions. The arrows whistled as they were loosed and flew straight and true, eack piercing a barrel. In an abundance of caution, each bowman shot a second flaming dart, even as the Star eased from its berth.

With a whoosh, the lamp oil within the barrels ignited, bursting the staves and spreading burning liquid over the wooden decks of the corsairs and the docks. The cries of alarm turned into shouts and screams as the crews of the corsairs sought to wake their comrades. Men rushed to bring up buckets in an attempt to quench the growing blaze, but it became quickly apparent that the conflagration would overwhelm both the ships and the docks. On nearby vessels, horns sounded and bells rang and soon there were a dozen and more ships underway in the harbor, seeking to evade the blaze. A fishing vessel ran its bow into the rigging of a trader, blocking several other ships' route of escape.

On shore, long lines of men assembled to pass buckets of water along in an attempt to confine the flames to the docks. While a nearby warehouse caught fire, the wind rose in the east, blowing both the flames and the smoke away from the city. When the sun rose hours later, the fires were under control, but the toll of the damage could be discerned. The corsairs and the docks were a total loss. Three other vessels had been badly damaged and longboats patrolled the harbor plucking men from the water. Two warehouses were now smoking ruins. A portion of the harbor was blocked by vessels that had collided and become entangled. But despite the chaos, few men other than portions of the crews of the corsairs and three guards who had been on the docks had suffered injury. By this time, the Lonely Star was well underway and was many miles north as it fled back towards Gondor...