Outracing the Flames RPG

[Arry]

The low, breathy sound of a flute wove in and out among the words. Soft words, they were that brought up familiar images. Lady and he and Patch, his hound . . . under a night sky; the full moon hanging fat and ripe against the darkness and the stars. It was a fair sound that hung about the words . . . a silvery little ribbon of song . . .

Brand moved a bit, and wished he hadn’t. The pain in his shoulder flared up, less hot and sharp though, he thought, than it had been. His right hand crept up to his left chest, near the shoulder, touching gingerly the bulky bandaging there. The wound it seemed had not bled through.

One and then the other he opened his eyes and saw it was night, just as in his dreams. The fire burned steadily, and many of his companions were already bedding down for sleep. His companions . . . the voice had said something about them . . . that they were safe. No, Rædwald had died, he remembered that.

He struggled up, wanting to take tally of what was going on. Someone placed a firm hand against his chest and pushed him back to his pillow. There to his left sat someone wrapped in a blanket against the growing chill of night. In the effort of pushing him back down, the blanket fell away from the face. Meghan!

‘I thought never to see you again,’ he said, grabbing hold of her hand before she could move it away. He grinned, a gladsome light in his eyes at the sight of her. ‘That was you who was playing, wasn’t it’ He laughed a little. ‘And you speaking . . . funny, I thought I was dreaming about being out with the sheep, with Lady and my hound. But now as I recall they were your stories, weren’t they . . . you and those beastly goats of yours. You have had the advantage of me this time, m’lady. But be warned, I have years and years of stories to better yours and they are all of sheep . . . lovely animals . . .

He coughed and groaned as the sudden movement pained his chest. A cup was offered, his head lifted a bit, so that he might drink. Wine . . . with something in it . . . it slaked his thirst and he knew it soon would send him back to dreaming.

Brand gave her hand a squeeze as he felt the concoction take effect. ‘I promise. I won’t try to get up. Get some sleep yourself, Meghan. You can tell me all the stories you want to tomorrow. Lay down, lay down and rest a while.’

[Arry]

Farael's post

It was a long night for all of them. The wounded needed to be looked after and those who had not been gravely wounded had to help Leod. Osmod sported a bruised arm and a few minor cuts. The pain on his chest had gotten worse after the fight so after the heaviest workload had been done, Leod told Osmod to get some rest.

Yet it would be a restless night. The moans of the wounded in their sleep and the dull ache of his limbs was enough to keep his troubled mind alert. He had given up on them, on those left in the hill, and most of them had been gravely wounded. The questions kept sounding in his throbbing head yet the answers were not there. He felt as if he would never sleep again, so he decided to go stretch his legs.

He walked to the nearby trees as silently as he could. He told himself he didn’t want to rouse the lucky ones who could sleep, but deep inside he knew that he just wanted to be alone. By his bedroll laid one of his drawings, the figures interlaced and crossed so that very few could decipher its meaning. What scared Osmod the most is that he did not recall writing it, but what it depicted was so terrible he did not dare to let those thoughts into his mind. They were there anyway, lurking in the dark unconscious corners.

He thought about deserting them all once again. Taking his sword, bow and arrows and fighting his way to safety or, most likely, death. As he returned to the camp, the grim moods had not subsided and he sneaked towards his mount, who greeted him cheerfully. ”If you only knew my friend, what I am about to do, would you shed a tear for me? Will anyone cry my loss or will I pass, from light to shadow never to be remembered again?”

A cold wind blew from the north, moaning a lamentation for the war. It was then that Osmod heard a voice calling his name. Yet it sounded far, far away and at the same time close, as if inside Osmod’s own mind. He knew the voice and he understood the message even if no more words had been spoken. Walking back to his bedroll, he erased the grim picture and drew a new one with his finger on the dirt. It was simple, composed by just three runes and a name. The meaning comforted Osmod all the same. To Edoras, for Rædwald. Finally, a sudden quietness took over his soul and he slept. He would not wake until the following morning.

[Folwren]

The night's blackness pressed in on Athwen like an oppressive storm as she lay huddled in blankets close to the fire. She could not shut her eyes, for each time she did, the image of the dagger sinking into the Easterling's side came back as vivid as when it happened. Or, which was even worse, she would see the flaming houses as she had from the top of the ridge where she and her horse had first seen the devistation of their home.

But finally she was able to slip into an uneasy sleep where she was not conscious of having closed her eyes. The sounds of the night mingled in together until they were all one with silence and the flickering orange and red light of fire darkened unto blackness and she slept.

The night was not half through when her mind awoke and once more brought back the horrible images. She tossed and turned where she lay, the dreams torturing her mind, until suddenly she started up, half awake, half delerious with sleep and nightmare, uttering a piercing cry breaking the stillness.

'Ean!' she called, her voice broken, high, and shrill. 'Eanlaen, come back!' Her voice rose to nearly a scream and she was crying. Athwen struggled wildly to free herself of tangled blankets and skirt and she tried to get to her feet, blinded by unreality and tears, a heavy fog seemed to rise around everything. She wanted to search, to look again. . .she had seen so clearly her sister, her mother. . .and they were gone. . . 'Eanlaen!' she called again, desperately, wildly. She sobbed helplessly, standing where she had lain and wrapping her arms tightly about herself.

A hand touched her shoulder gently. She quivered but didn't turn to look to see who it was. But then a voice spoke, whispering softly in the stillness that followed her outbreak. 'Athwen. . .'

'No,' she whispered, her breath trembling with the word. 'It's no good. I didn't want. . .I didn't want to stay. You know I didn't. Not when. . .not when everyone. . .' She drew another shuddering breath and her tear blinded eyes darted back and forth as though watching for something. But nothing came and nothing happened and minute after minute she stood there, absolutely still, except for the jerking breaths her crying brought in and out.

[Undómë]

She gave him a list of horrible consequences that would befall him if she found he’d gone back on his promise. But he was already slipping into sleep and the grip on her hand was loosening. She tucked his hand beneath the blanket and pulled the edge of his covers up under his chin. Her fingers slid gently over his scarred cheek.

Meghan was tired. Her head had quit its fierce ache, but now her joints and muscles picked up the protest of this awful day. She spread out her bedroll close to Brand and eased herself gratefully into it.

She did not know how long she had slept, but the fire had burned very low when the shrill cry rent the night. Meghan sat up, her heart pounding. ‘Please, please let it not be another attack!’ she gasped, her sleep fogged eyes taking in the hill top in quick glances. There were no figures moving about save for that of the young woman, Athwen. And she stood as if rooted to the spot where her blankets now lay in a tangle.

'Ean!' Athwen called, her voice broken, high, and shrill. 'Eanlaen, come back!’ The girl hugged herself in the cold night air, calling out once again in a wild voice. ‘Eanlaen!’

She approached the young woman with some caution. Athwen looked as one possessed, and Meghan had no desire to add to whatever demons had come to her in the night. She thought of herself when she was just a little girl and her father had died. There were terrible dreams that had come to her after his passing. And she remembered what her brother had done for her.

‘Athwen,’ she said softly, laying her hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. There was no response at first; then, Athwen began to talk, but not to Meghan. Something or someone invisible held her attention. Still Meghan knew it would do no good for her just to stand her, cold in the night, battling demons. And she suspected that the real demon was the girl, herself. She had made some choice, for good or ill, it made no difference to her at this point, and now that choice preyed on her mind.

Meghan stooped down and picked up the tangled blankets, wrapping one around the other woman. ‘Ean’s not here, Athwen. It’s only me, Meghan.’ She spoke gently, putting her arm round Athwen’s shoulders and walked her haltingly to where she’d left her own bedroll. ‘Only me . . . and look, here’s Brand. He’s sleeping and so are the others. It’s night and we’ve had a bad, awful day. It’s no wonder your dreams are filled with frights and dark things.’

‘Come, you’re so cold. And I can see your weariness in your eyes.’ She pulled the girl down to her blankets. ‘Snuggle in against me; I’ll put my arms around you tight . . . just like my brother used to do to drive away the terrors in the night for me. I’ll hold you safe. And when the light comes you can tell me of this Ean that you called after. I’d like that . . . to hear a little of your life . . .’

‘Lie down, won’t you, Athwen? Come take some rest . . .’

[Eowyn Skywalker]

The attack had brought about chaos; there were wounded, even dead. It was striking in its odd accuracy—she had been cynical before, and now things had come true. Eostre had escaped with injuries that looked far worse than they really were, a twisted ankle that may've neared breakage but had fortunately escaped it, and blood staining her face and garments.

Nothing more than pain. Nothing that she couldn't bear.

Nevertheless, for her to sit down and try to rest after the wounded had been brought back to the top of the hill (if they weren't already), the worst of them tended to carefully... it was almost impossible. An improbablity she knew would bring about a dull sense of fatigue the next morning if she didn't try to recover.

Perhaps she didn't care.

Someone had died.

She tried so hard to sleep in the night, along with the rest of the camp, but it was elusive. Things were simply uncomfortable now; it'd be all the more easy to be silent.