Outracing the Flames RPG

[Undómë]

Bregoware

Meghan


The moon was bright enough that the way to the ransacked village was well lit. Meghan left her horse behind and picked her way down the slope. Her boots kicked up the light layer of ash and soot the wind had blown from the charred remains. At the back of her mind she could hear a small voice of warning, that perhaps this was not a safe thing to be doing . . . by herself . . . much less at night.

The blackened and tumbled down walls of what had been some of the outlying huts were the first things she came upon. The moon’s light softened the ragged edges of them and threw wide puddles of shadow about them. It was so quiet. So very quiet, save for the occasional sound of the night’s breeze as it flapped a half hung shutter against a cottage’s remaining wall.

It struck her odd, this quietness. Even in the late watches of the night there were noises in Bregoware. The bleat of a baby goat, wanting its mother. Chickens squawking as they ruffled their feathers and then settled back to sleep. The soft slap-slap of someone’s feet as they headed for the privy. A child, crying out in a dream. A feeling of great sadness washed over her at the loss of these familiar sounds. This village must have known them, too. And now they were muffled beneath the fallen timbers and the ashes.

‘Is this what we will return to?’ she asked, thinking of her family’s home as her eyes took in the ruins of some farmer’s place. And next to it the burnt little pen and shed where his family’s animals had been kept. She had always felt safe, secure, in the little dwelling where she lived with her mother and her brother and his small family. Now she understood how insubstantial were those old wood walls and thick oak doors against the ravenous dark wolf from the east who would devours all if he could. She shivered, pulling her cloak tighter about her.

In the dirt pathways that led from the outskirts to the center of the village were strewn the bodies of the awful creatures who had wrought this destruction. The villagers, it seemed, had put up a valiant fight against them. But so many were the attackers that they had not a chance of victory.

A frown furrowed her brow as she walked along. Where were the bodies of the slain villagers? Her stomach revolted at the sudden thought that the remainder of these vile creatures, these Orcs, might have taken them for food. Surely not! She sent a quiet plea out that this would not prove true.

As if in answer to this, she found her way at last to the village center, the small square that had served these people much as the one in Bregoware. A gathering place where news both ill and good was told and joyous tidings celebrated, sad ones mourned. Some ones had taken the time to separate these good people of Scyffold, as Sythric had named it, from their murderers and sent them beyond the circles of this world. Brought back honor to them in this way; gave their spirits some measure of peace against the horror of their passing.

Where were these good people now who had done this last thing, she wondered. And who would do the same should the darkness fall on Bregoware?

A tear slipped down her cheek, looking at the charred remains of bones. From the inner pocket of her cloak she took out her little reed pipe. She fingered the small holes in it for a moment, recalling a song an old piper had once played to send off the spirits of a number of young men of Bregoware killed in a skirmish with a small scouting party of eastern men. She hummed the melody to catch the notes then put the pipe to her lips and played for the fallen . . .

[Farael]

Osmod could not sleep. It was in part due to the pain on his limbs and his chest, but it was mostly because of another kind of pain. He had been the first one to gaze upon the burnt village and he had been all alone when he did so. His mind kept going back to that terrible moment when he saw the town from afar.

...His horse was panting, and so was him. He was trying to rid his mind of those doubts by showing himself just how far he could go without breaking. His horse seemed to have understood his master’s thoughts and did not complain when Osmod set a gruelling pace for the two of them. There was a hill and night was nearing, so Osmod decided to give his horse a rest while he went up on the hill to scout forward. After all, he still had to scout for the riding party. He grabbed a water skin and his sword and ran up the hill, until his legs ached and his temples throbbed.

He reached the top of the hill and breathed in a lungful of air. Something did not feel right. He thought it was because he was tired and so he bowed his head and breathed slowly, taking in big gulps of air rather than faster and smaller ones. It was still not alright. At last, he lifted his head and looked towards the horizon. There was a town, not too far ahead, and something did not sit right with it. At first, Osmod’s tired mind could not understand what was going on. Then he understood. That village was dead. Not just empty, as the other town had been, but dead. The enemy had reached it before the people managed to escape. The wind was blowing his way and carrying the scent of rotting bodies. The smell of death was what he had been breathing in.

Osmod fell to his knees and screamed. He felt like running down to the town and searching for anyone living, whether friend or foe. He wanted to help the people of the town first and foremost, but as his anger boiled over, the idea of fighting some orcs felt quite appealing. Yet common sense won the battle that time and he whistled for his horse to come back to him. He needed to get to his group and he needed to do so fast. It was no longer safe for him to be alone...

Osmod turned in his bedroll, trying to avoid a particularly annoying root and heard some footsteps going away from the camp. He sat up and looked around. Meghan was missing, he assumed she had gone for a walk. It was not safe to do so, not this late at night and alone, so Osmod thought he had to call her back. Yet maybe she needed some time alone, just like he had needed it that same afternoon. On second thought, Osmod dressed up, put his boots on, grabbed his sword and followed Meghan. He kept his distance and walked as softly as he could manage. He wanted to be able to protect her, not to interfere with her thoughts.

She went down the hill and into the burned town and Osmod thought of stopping her again. He decided against it, as he also wanted to see what had happened. Meghan walked into the village, stopping for a moment here, a second there. She seemed to be lost in thought and Osmod did not dare to interrupt her, even when he felt he needed some company. The mangled bodies of the orcs dead during the attack on the city were still laying where they had fallen. ”What kind of a heartless army does not look after their dead?”. Even the defeated villagers had collected their dead, as none could be seen. Osmod frowned as he realized the impossibility of what he had just thought. Someone else had been there before them.

There was no way of knowing whether that ‘someone’ would be their friend or foe, so Osmod hurried to catch up with Meghan. She had found her way to the village square and was standing next to a funerary pyre. Whoever had taken the bodies of the dead villagers had done so to make sure they did not become carrion for the animals. He approached Meghan. She was playing a slow, sad melody and Osmod waited until she was done. He understood this was her way to pay her respect to the dead, and he felt the need to do the same. He kneeled down and drew a pattern in the dirt. It was a different pattern from what he drew when they made camp. It was meant to symbolise a resting ground. His grandmother had told him it helped the deceased ones find their true resting places.

He stood up and cleared his throat. He did not know how to get Meghan’s attention without startling her, as she seemed lost in her own thoughts. He spoke, hoping she would not be too startled.

”Don’t worry Meghan, it will not be the same for Bregoware.” He forced a confident look on his face, even though he did not feel that way at all ”They are coming this way now, our families. Tomorrow they will be across the river and maybe they will meet with some of the other villages. The more people they gather, the more able men there will be. They will be ready and able to keep the orc bandits at bay”.

Osmod hoped his face would not betray his words as he offered Meghan his hand. ”Do you think we should head back now? Forgive me if I followed you, but I heard you leave and I did not want to let you come by yourself. The village might have not been empty. And I couldn’t sleep anyway” With a sad smile he looked at the hill where the rest of the group was sound asleep. Suddenly, Osmod realized they had left no guards to look for any signs of the enemy approaching. It was a bad oversight and he would not let that happen again, yet right there and then, his first concern was Meghan's safety, as well as his own.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

It had been interesting, Eostre thought, to speak with Sythric, albeit briefly. At least, she presumed he had no interest in her, her being greatly older, and he had been friendly enough... perhaps she was too cynical with all the party members. Just perhaps, though.

At the very least, she though perhaps she should be a bit kinder to Meghan. Somewhat.

And the town...

Burnt. Was that a surprise? Destroyed? Was that a shock? She found in a sense it was, almost drawing tears to hardened eyes. Too dangerous. Eostre sat at the fire silently, having withdrawn from the remainder of the party once more. Talking at the fire seemed so empty; the town watching over them no more. After she was excused for sleep after it was finally decided no watches would be set, her sleep was scarcely fulfulling.

Burnt... destroyed... gone. All the people...

It didn't take much to notice Meghan's leaving, not in her uneasy sleep. But she heard Osmod rise; her presense was unnecessary. Was it ever necessary? Hardly...

[Maeggaladiel]

Fion forced himself to close his eyes. He held them closed for several moments, but finally they opened again. It was no use. It was as though the image of the slain vilage had been burned into the retinas of his eyes. Opened or closed, they could still see the horrible destruction...

The image was terrifying. All those people... All those lives... Gone. Slain and burned by orcs or Easterlings.

Fion felt as though someone had slapped him across the face, waking him from a dream. This was reality. This horrible, smouldering scene was reality. People were dying. Fion felt suddenly very small, and very weak, and very alone. There had been men in this town; surely some fighters had lived here. And they had died. Died! If they had been slain, then how could he, Fion of Bregoware, farmer extrordinaire, even hope to survive should he run into orcs?

He just... would! a stubborn inner voice declared. Somehow, he and his party would pull through. They had to. It was their duty... But still, doubt began to cast its shadow over his mind. What if they failed?

Fion rolled over. Meghan and Osmod were gone, he noticed. They must have slipped off while he was busy trying to force himself to sleep.

Everyone else was asleep, although their slumber seemed far from tranquil. Fion quietly sat up. Sleep was unattainable now. He stared blankly off into the darkness, feeling strangely cold.

They were dead. The entire town was dead. A small, sleepy little town...

Like Bregoware.

[Undómë]

Bregoware

Meghan


So caught up had she been in her own thoughts that she did not hear him approach. She gasped, turning quickly to face the source of the noise behind her. Osmod! He was talking to her, but she did not catch his words at first. The sound of his voice seemed so incongruous in this little sphere of silence she had entered.

‘. . . think we should head back now?’

She looked down at the little drawing in the dirt at his feet, wondering what it meant. It seemed more intricate than the last he had drawn.

‘. . . couldn’t sleep anyway.’

His words came to an end and he smiled sadly, his gaze turning up toward the hill where the others were. He was worried about them, it showed in his face. Yet, he had come after her and here he was, offering his hand to her. And then the thought struck her. He was worried about her, too. It was an oddly comforting thought; and in a way, somehow disquieting. This mix of unfamiliar feelings made her uneasy.

She laid her hand lightly in his outstretched one, using it for balance as she took a little leaping step over the pattern on the ground. Her hand dropped away, resting at her own side, as soon as her feet were steady on the other side. ‘My thanks!’ she said, nodding at him quickly.

‘Perhaps your right. We should get back.’ She matched her pace to his longer stride as best she could. ‘At least to rest, if not to sleep.’ She pulled her cloak closer about her, blocking out the chilly air. ‘Will we head south again tomorrow,’ she asked breaking the silence as they walked up the hill. ‘Or head west?’

---------------

Rædwald


‘There you are!’ Raedwald was halfway down the hill when he spied the two coming up. ‘Now how am I to hold up my end of the bargain with your brother if you go wandering off when I’m dead asleep?’ He rubbed the back of his head, looking at her. ‘If it hadn’t been for young Fionn, tossing and turning in his blankets, I would have slept right through ‘til daybreak!’

He nodded to Osmod. ‘My thanks for seeing her safely back to camp. I’m wide awake now. What say you if I take the watch for now, and you catch a few winks of sleep. Be daybreak in a few hours.’

Rædwald looked to Meghan. ‘Now look at you, lass. You’re shivering in the cold.’ Rædwald took off his own cloak and wrapped it about her. He was heads taller than she was and it trailed on the ground as she walked along.

[Nogrod]

Bregoware

The gentle melody of Meghan’s reed pipe was taken up by the light breeze that alone wandered the forsaken alleys of the village. It carried it towards the hill, and with a gentle breath of wind it climbed up, to Sythric’s sleeping mind. Sythric was just passing from a light sleep to deep dreams, as the age old melody passed all his semi-conscious levels of awareness, without leaving a trace. It entered the unconscious levels of his being, bubbling like a small spring stream. It was both cool and smoothing, defying all the harsh remembrances and dark visions that had started to gather in his dreams. The melody carried him to his childhood, to love and security. To peace. He slep better than in months. He was at the arms of his mother, in the arms of a world that had no evil in it.

Sythric woke up before the others. The sun was not up yet, but it would be soon. He was full of energy and positive mind. There was no sign of yesterdays tired and gloomy Sythric. He tended Thydrë, checking carefully, that everything was all right with her. Then he took two apples and his pipe from his pack, and headed for the top of the hill in the dim light of the daybreak. As he had thought, the guard was sitting there. And to his pleasure, it was Raedwald.

Sythric sat beside his old friend, took a good bite of his apple, offering the other one to Raedwald. Then they were just silent for a moment. The sight of Scyffold surely was depressing. After his good morning, it took his spirits a bit lower. Well, he knew, he would have to face that sight before he decided to take his morningpipe up there. Sometimes it just was better to face the evil head on than trying to forget it. And the sun would be there, any minute now.

He tried to reconstruct the village out from memory, comparing it to this sight ahead of him. He thought, he spotted the town hall’s remnants, and then there was this large structure, only halfburned. He turned to Raedwald: “Do you think that big one there, quite at the center, could be Tryggr the Merchant’s villa? He sure was one of the wealthiest men around these parts of the world. But as rain falls over everyone, the good and the bad, the rich and the poor alike, so does war and it’s destruction. There is no escape from it, but resistance. And against orcs you can’t resist with gold, as you can with men. At the times of distress we are all naked, armed only by our fragile bodies to shelter one another.” He puffed yet a couple of rings from his pipe, and then offered the pipe to Raedwald. “You care for some this early?” he asked, and simultaneously heard some noises from down below. Someone seemed to have been waking up.

[Arry]

Wulfham


Brand had only slept a few hours of the past night. He had hoped they would be further along the river by now, but the incident with the cougar and the finding of the burned village had put them behind schedule. He lay awake for the most part, thinking what needed to be done before they could ride again.

The cat and her offspring had done more damage than just to his face and arm. One of the sacks of dried meats had been mauled and ruined, even though they’d hung it high from the branch of a tall tree. He had not been thinking of a hungry big cat as a predator when they’d done that. It had been easy for the animal to climb out to the sack and retrieve it. Now he filed that bit of information away for future use; though he hoped there would be no more encounters of that sort.

He was up before first light, and had stoked up their little camp fire into a good sized blaze. The river was near, and he was thinking of catching a number of fish. Split open and smoked near the fire, they would be a good source of meat for a fair number of days. He made a kettle of strong tea and enough noise to wake most of the others up at least a little.

‘What say we see if we can catch a few winter trout?’ He walked over to where Dorran sat still wrapped in his blankets, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. ‘Here! This’ll peel your eye lids open,’ he said with a little grin as he handed him a mug of tea. ‘And how about you, Leod? Think we can outwit a few of our finny friends?’

‘How about I meet you two down there?’ he pointed toward the river’s edge just east of their camp. ‘Was up early and sorted out my lines. I’ll start getting them set. The early morning rise should just be coming on. I hope a few of the fattened for winter fish will still be greedy enough to take the hook. And worse, comes to worse, we can try our luck with my small net in the eddies.’

The two nodded their heads at him, though whether it was in agreement or just an appeasement so that he would quit chattering at them so early in the day. He fetched a cup of tea for Leod, then took his leave. Curious and eager for company, the dog followed after.