Outracing the Flames RPG

[Tevildo]

Dorran

Dorran stared helplessly as Athwen retreated and went over to sit near Fion. What a terrible fool he had been! The young woman had come over asking if there was some way that she could help, but behind her simple words had been a hundred questions left unsaid. She had wanted a bit of kindness, and all he could do was stumble over his words and gawk. While sometimes it was hard for him to talk with a lass, there had been more going on than that.

He wished he could have spoken to her the way he did with his own sister---in an easy, familiar way that showed kindness and respect. Still, it hadn't only been the presence of a young girl that had so rattled him and thrown him off track. The plain fact was that the Orc attack on the village had totally unnerved him. There were too many bleak memories still in his mind. Wherever Athwen walked, the ghosts of the village seemed to tred quietly in her path. And those ghosts were too much like things that Dorran had already heard and seen. Still, that was no excuse for rude behavior.

He managed to mumble his thanks to Sythric for his offer of help in cooking. Then, thinking of the only thing he could do to make some amends, he grabbed two wooden trenchers from the supply sack, piled these high with fish and added a few nutty sweets to the side of the plate, the last treats that he had from those his sister had put in his pack. Running over to where Fion and Athwen were seated, he impulsively reached out and shoved his offerings towards them, mumbling out an apology. "I must ask pardon from both of you. Fion, if truth be told, it's because of me that you bear a fearsome lump on your head and are feeling so poorly. When they spoke of men coming after the Orc raid, all I could think about were the Easterlings who descended on our own village and dragged all the survivors off to slavery. I'm really, really sorry. I made a fearful mistake. You're certainly no Easterling. And lady Athwen, forgive my rudeness. It's true I have nothing for you to do right now. But with all these newcomers in camp, I would truly appreciate some help in preparing things in the morning before we set out on the trail. Perhaps, you'd like to help then and we could talk a bit."

Dorran stared down at the ground and shook his head, "It's hard. I know. You see, the same thing happened in my own village when I was a little child. It was a horrible day. Just horrible. My parents survived but my older brother was....." He stopped and backed awkwardly away, reluctant to say more. "Anyways, here's the food, and I hope you're both feeling better soon."

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Leod

Leod turned towards Sythric and sighed, "I am sorry. I've said nothing to answer the question you posed to me, as to the health of Fion. If truth be told, I am siting here and wondering the same thing myself. He looks to be in amazingly good shape for one who has gone through what happened this afternoon. And yet, I wonder......"

Leod's voice drifted off before he began speaking again, "Sometimes there are wounds inside, ones that can't be seen to a healer. I just don't know if that is the case. The wound on the head is still nasty. Plus he has lost blood and is weaker than I would like to see, for one about to set out on a long journey. If the trip is light and easy, I don't imagine your friend will have any trouble. But if we must ride hard, if there are new blows or wounds, then, truthfully, I am not sure what might happen. Perhaps it would be best if he could journey more slowly and not try anything so ill advised as a madcap rush for Edoras. But, then, I am not a member of your party, and it is not I that must decide this...."

[Nogrod]

“... But, then, I am not a member of your party, and it is not I that must decide this....", Leod turned to look at Sythric. Is he waiting for me to agree on this? He’s right in a way, and then not: we are in this mess all of us, together.

“I thank you for your being quite outspoken, considering Fion, but I still think I have to disagree with you.” Sythric looked at Leod firmly, but also respectingly. He had learned to honour the elders, and he sure did, but now he really had to disagree. “I guess, we have lots of decisions, possibly some grave ones to make, all of us. I don’t think we can any more talk of us as separate parties. We are Rohanians in trouble, again all of us. I can’t see any outsiders here any more. The land is insecure, and there are a host of messages to the King waiting for delivery – messages, that seem to be gaining in importance day after day. Wulfham and Bregoware are abandoned, as is Aernanaes. Scyffold is burnt down... We have to think about these things as one now, as Rohanians with a common end: how to balance between the effectiveness of our delivery and the safety of all of us individually?” He paused for a while, checking Leod’s reactions. He seemed not to disagree, at least not outright, as his expressions revealed not a thought behind them.

“But that’s something we should discuss together, all of us, with a roast deer to go with it... Which kind of reminds me of...”, he looked to his left where Dorran and Athwen were sitting besides Fion and talking something. He turned his face back to Leod. “It seems, that our master chef has more important things at hand just now?”, with that he winked an eye to Leod and smiled jokingly. “Maybe we should continue preparing this deer, so that we would all have a good dinner before it gets dark?” Leod nodded in agreement. They rose up and took themselves to where Dorran had left the half-carved deer. Together they were pretty fast with it, both knowing the trade well enough. The deer was skinned in just a moment.

“I have some seasoning at my packages, and I could also go and make us a spit of sorts, if you would wash the blood from the deer and see to the fire so that it burns nicely? I quess we should roast this at that bigger fire where Fion and others are, as this has been used to smoking, and would take quite a time to generate enough heat? I could then take care of the internal organs – if Dorran won’t be rushing to it before I have a chance.” As Leod agreed to this division of labour, Sythric took to the nearby trees, and noticed Eostre standing alone, just having fun by herself. Eostre, so you are alone again... How do we get you out from your private jail you’ve created?

It was only now, as Sythric walked towards Eostre, that he paid attention to Nay’s private show that clearly seemed to be the thing amusing her. It sure seemed funny – although Vaenosa seemed pretty frustrated with it. Has that girl ever trained her horse? How has she dared to take that kind of a horse to a mission like this? They both watched it a couple of moments silently, but then Sytric addressed Eostre. “Would you like to do something? Kind of joining us others? We would have to make a spit, needing two strong young trees with boughs at the top, about a yard long, and one two-yarder, thinner but thick and straight. Could you get them? I could then go and unpack all our horses for their comfort, and get the seasoning. Leod, the old man there, is preparing the deer to the bigger fire. Or we could change the jobs: I’ll get the spit and you’ll unpack the horses? My seasoning is in a small box, in the backbag at Thydrë’s left side.”

[Folwren]

Athwen looked from Dorran, slowly walking away, to the trencher he had put into her hands, and back again. Blinking in surprise, she then averted her gaze to Fion who simply shrugged and repositioned himself so that he could eat more comfortably. The food indeed looked excellent and Athwen was hungry, no mistake, but. . .

'Dorran, wait.' Her voice trembled slightly, but she couldn't help it and she wouldn't put it off. She put the plate down and scrambled quickly to her feet, pushing her skirt impatiently away from her ankles as she rose. He turned at her voice and she approached him and came to a stop right before him. He looked down at her, and she looked back at him. 'I know what you mean,' she said after a short pause of not knowing what to say at all. 'I don't blame you for not knowing what to say or do, I really don't.' She could have cursed the tears in her eyes. It was hard enough for the young man as it was without seeing them and hearing her voice quavering as though it were about to break. She broke the gaze and looked down.

'I wasn't. . .I wasn't offended at all when you said there wasn't anything to do,' she said. 'Honestly. I didn't want to cut up the deer and I don't know, even if I did want to help. But I would like to help with breakfast tomorrow.' She paused. That wasn't even the most important part of it all. She lifted her head again and looked at him. 'You've been through what I have, too?' she suddenly asked, unaware that her voice had dropped almost to a whisper.

'We'll talk later,' he said quietly. 'When there aren't as many people around and possibly listening.' He took a swift, cursory glance around him before looking back at Athwen.

'Alright,' she said, stepping back. 'So long as you're alright.' He nodded, and she was satisfied, and she turned away and went back to her seat by Fion. Sitting back down, she took up the trencher and set it on her lap. 'I've not eaten since morning,' she said, pealing some of the smoked fish from the bones. There was a slight pause while she was intent on her food. In a moment, however, she became aware that the silence between them was probably awkward, and now, becoming aware of it, she found that it was. 'Um. . .have you known your companions long, from your home?'

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Eowyn Skywalker's post


The request jerked her from the bemused and amused state Eostre had let herself sink into. She glanced over at Sythric; he seemed to be vaguely concerned about her, but she didn't have the heart to tell him she preferred being this way. Silence was safer, it didn't scream at you and assume things that didn't always ever make sense. Didn't assume you wanted this or that, or perhaps this and that and that while you were at it.

"I don't have an axe," she responded dutifully, perhaps a bit dully. "I can unpack our horses though, certainly."

They seperated then, Eostre going over to unpack the Bregowarian horses. They weren't overpacked, she noted with relief—though packed heavily enough she felt certain the creatures had to feel a strong sense of relief at being let to breathe again. She stacked the packs silently nearby the logs about the fire, rubbing the horse's backs a moment after relieving them of their burdans.

At Sythric's horse, she paused a moment, digging the spices from the pack before finishing the job. Having pocketed them, she was uncertain who to give them to... Leod, wasn't it? The older man.

Walking over to the larger fire where the deer was to be cooked, she sat down nearby, the spices in hand. Surely whoever required them would ask.

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Nogrod's post


Making the spit it is then, Sythric thought, and took himself to the sparse thicket, searching for suitable young trees. He found a fitting two-yarder quite easily. But getting the vertical ones weren’t as easy. In the end he found two small birches by the side of the river that had thick enough boughs in them.

Sythric hacked them down with his great uncle’s knife “I don’t have an axe”, he remembered Eostre’s words and smiled lightly. Then he sat down on to a large rock by the river and started to peel them. It was then that he realized, how blissful it was to be alone for a moment. Just doing something routine-like, not having to think anything in particular. He watched at the willows by the riverbank, their leaves and branches hissing softly in the wind. He remembered his father, teaching him to make a willow-whistle when he was seven. When have I made a willow-whistle the last time? It must have been the one I made to Winflaed. But how long ago? Must be six years...

It had been a hot, latesummer day. The crickets were chirping and the bees were buzzing, the dragonflies flew over the water searching for pray. The sunlight was gently filtered through the leafs on the trees around the stream. They were sitting by the little stream that ran beside Skara’s minor fields. Just behind the stream’s corner, they could see the little watermill, it’s wheel revolving slowly by the weak current. The main building on the top of the hill was just hidden from view by the few small trees and bushes by the streamside. Those trees also sheltered the people sitting beneath them from the cruelly hot sun of the early afternoon. Waermund and Waerferth were fishing with hook and line their father had made them. It was always a great wonder to Sythric, how young boys could be so taken in with something that they managed to concentrate and focus on it, even for a short while. The little boys watched the float intently, in total silence.

He had given his great uncle’s knife to Winflaed, and she had cut down a nice finger-thick willow for them. Then he had shown her, step by step, how the whistle was made: how the bark was loosened whole by tapping it with the knifehandle, where the airhole should be carved, how deep the mouthpiece should be cut, how it could be decorated etc. The eleven year old girl had watched in awe and wonder how the man had turned a mere greyish stick into an instrument with soft, curvy indentations running by its side. She just had to make one herself! Her little fingers handled her knife skilfully – Sythric had given it to her as a birthday present, when she had turned ten last year. She clearly had some talent with the knife. Only now that talent and skill was clearly directed more to decoration than making the whistle sound. After some toil Winflaed was happy with the result. But as was to be expected, it didn’t work. She bit her lip and fought against the tears.

They had reached a deal in the end. Sythric had made a new whistle, which Winflaed decorated. So as almost everything you could see, was made by her, then that way it was a whistle made by her. So went her reasoning, and Syhtric happily accepted it. She had been very proud of “her first whistle”, playing it for the rest of the summer everywhere – and getting most of the people quite annoyed in the end.

How dear memories! Did I ask Swithulf to take that whistle with him or not? He had preserved Winflaed’s unsounding whistle for himself as a memory of those days. But where was it now? The whistle that was so enthusiastically been carved by those little girl’s hands in times that were so much brighter and happier than the present. Where was that little girl, now a young lady? Running for her life, raped and abused, imprisoned, dead...? Now there was nothing to stop the tears. No one around seeing him cry. He sobbed his heart out there at the riverbank. The knife dropped from his hand and his body trembled with every new burst of tears.

But it was over soon enough. The chill, wintery breeze from the river helped to carry away the memories of golden summerdays. Pull yourself together man! There are pressing things at hand, and you sit here alone, crying like a child. He calmed himself down while peeling the last stick and then rose up. He dried his eyes and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He checked his image from the water. So wary, so old now with grief. Well, this might be your last chance of doing some decent deeds before you’re gone. He walked quietly back to the camp.

Leod had cleaned the deer, and was rubbing the seasoning to it with Eostre as he came to the fireplace. Sythric adjusted the vertical spit-holders to their places, while Leod and Eostre ran the two-yarder through the deer and tied the legs to its body. Then they all three lifted it up to rest on the boughs. The fire was burning brightly. It was only now, by the heat of the fire, that Sythric realized the weather being much colder today than it had been yesterday.