The Fellowship of the Fourth Age: A New Beginning Planning Thread

[Durelin]

POSTED TO THE PROPOSAL ~*~ PIO

Here's the first post in Mordor:

The slaves snuck glances as the boy was brought back out to the fields. He had been gone for only minutes, but the rest of the slaves had been at the mercy of the whip if they even thought of pausing in their work while they were forced to listen to his screams. What they had done to the child the overseer would have liked to have done to all the slaves, but the survival rate was not good enough to risk losing so many of the laborers. The plantation owner would have his heartstrings for a necklace if he ever put his power and wealth at such risk. Neither was very abundant in Mordor since the defeat of Sauron, particularly wealth. Those who had any wealth or power were those who lived without the constant worry of what to fill their stomachs with. And who had control of the few sources of water.

The boy’s mother put herself at great risk, leaping forward to get to her son, dropping her work. The Orc who dragged the boy out to the fields kicked her down onto her hands and knees. There she groveled and begged just to hear that her son was alright, even though she knew he wasn’t and never would be. She had no hope for his future. She felt terrible guilt for even having given birth to him. He had not deserved it. Her son was completely silent. He had been since even before they brought him out.

“Tell the sow you’re alright and get her to shut up.” The overseer and the Orc holding the boy howled with grating laughter. The boy turned his head to look at his mother. There was a moment when the two’s eyes met and the boy opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His lips moved, but no words were formed. No words, no sound was heard. His mother collapsed to the ground, wailing, not rising even for the stomping and kicking of the other guards, so consumed by her grief. Her son’s tongue had been ripped out, and his vocal cords removed or made unusable through a procedure involving a hot iron. The mother cried and screamed as two guards, one a Man and one an Orc, forcibly pulled her up and dragged her toward the rough shed. She would be taken care of in much the same way, but she did not cry for herself.

The two had been among those who had tried to escape during the short-lived rebellion of the desperate slaves against their master. Mother and son had probably tasted some kind of freedom for a few hours, but they had been recaptured and were being punished and used as tyrannical symbols of fear because of the forbidden fruit that had bitten from. They had not been alone as escapees, though. There were of course others who had shared and would share similar fates, but there were also those who had made it to the mountains. The looming natural barricade of the mountain range seemed to mock them, and yet they saw the peaks as soaring freedom. Some actually planned to scale the mountains and escape to the world beyond; others simply wanted to get as far from the plantation as they could, and toward the southern range of the Ephel Dûath was as good a direction as any that were not back.

Four days after the rebellion, fifty-six of the escapees had collected themselves into a group, looking for others who had escaped and anyone who they could call an ally. Few, as they approached the mountains, actually considered climbing them, no matter how nice they knew or had heard the world beyond them was. For several days, the mountains acted as a hiding place for the fifty slaves that still lived, and become more of a cage than ever. But on the seventh night after their escape, they woke up to find themselves surrounded. Luckily, their stalkers were allies, and useful ones: a gang of ex-slaves, free for varying numbers of years, and staying alive mostly through theft from their former masters. Fierce fighters and superb survivalists, they brought more useful skills to the group. Some of them were truly thieves and killers, but they all had or remembered having family in various forms. They welcomed more hands, even if it meant more mouths to feed. And the two groups discovered quickly, if they had not known it from the start, that there was really very little separating them: both were more than ready for change.

Most had heard, though at least a year later than they should have, that Nurn actually belonged to them. Several years after Elessar’s declaration, word had spread to practically every being in Mordor that, according to the King of Gondor, the slaves were free. And yet they were still being whipped, chained, and treated as animals in the very land they were supposed to own. It was that knowledge that had given the slaves enough hope to risk rebellion, and it was what pushed them now to journey across Mordor to the southern reaches of the Plateau of Gorgoroth. A new wilderness meant a new beginning.

Khamir sat outside the caves in which the rest of the camp slept, the pitch black of night not intimidating in the least, and the crisp rushing of the river not loud to his ears. It was his watch. Every night, he had the last watch. It was just his way, and very few liked to stand in his way. He knew that the night around him could betray him at any moment, but he sat calmly, resting his mind in dreams without sleep. So many nights he had sat up in the same way amongst the sharp rocks at the base of the mountains. What made this night any different? For one thing, the company was different. There were now sixty-four men, women, and children sleeping nearby. It was no longer just the gang, and they no longer only had to worry about themselves. More was not necessarily better, but this group…they brought hope, something that Khamir had long given up on. It felt good to have it back.

He knew he was happier than he had been in years, though he did not smile. He knew the journey ahead would be the roughest he had ever taken, and he feared the numbers they might lose. He knew he had never had to figure out how to feed sixty-five mouths before, and hoped someone else had leadership in mind. He knew all of this, and yet he found peace lingering somewhere in the night air. Very soon he would be able to see the sun inching its way up the horizon. Perhaps it was hope of such a sight that kept him still. He knew hope was a powerful force.

But what he did not know was that, miles away, that same force drove a group shockingly similar to his own. The Orcs, the cruel masters, the savage monsters, the mindless followers of Sauron…they had families that they cared for. And they knew that it was time Nurn was abandoned, along with the old ways. They sought a new way, a new home, and a new beginning. Fifteen Orcs, male and female, young and old, would find a fresh wilderness just as attractive as sixty-five men, women, and children would. Neither knew they had dreamed the same dream, and neither would believe it if they were told so.

But if hope could be shared, why not a journey, a land? Why not a new beginning?

That morning, Khamir found what he could to write a letter that would show just how hopeful recent events had made him. He planned to write to the King of Gondor himself. It was he, Aragorn, Elessar, who had not forgotten the slaves. Perhaps this would be just another reminder? Was it a cry for help, a beseeching of aid, a simple report of the situation? Khamir found himself unable to write a single word for almost an hour, but when he finally started to write, the letter became all three of those things. He told of the slaves’ escape, of he and his fourteen men’s troubles, and of their plan to start anew together. He also told of the difficulties they faced daily, and how they would only double if they ventured to leave the safety of the caves and to a complete wilderness. The word ‘help’ was not there, but it was in every way implied. The letter was given to a trader heading back to Minas Tirith, and Khamir found himself praying for the first time.

Now all they had to do was wait in hope for some kind of answer: preferably one that did not come only in writing.

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And here's the bio for my ex-slave character:

Name: Khamir

Age: 37

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Weapons: Throwing daggers and a long hunting knife, fairly crudely manufactured.

Appearance: Very tall for a human, he stands at about six feet, four inches tall. He is very thin, mostly built of lean muscle, not having had much to eat in years. His skin, a beautiful creamy brown, is barely seen through all the grime. His eyes are hazel, with specks of yellow often clearly visible among the soft brown. His hair is thick and curly black, and is usually tied back, or sometimes let loose, with only a band around his head to keep it out of his eyes a bit. He wears a worn shirt and pants, and scraps of rough leather armour strapped over that: a pair of pauldrons, a vambrace on his left arm, a gauntlet on his left hand, and a pair of cuisses, as well as boots. He wears a vambrace and gauntlet only on his left arm and hand because he lost his right arm from just above the elbow down. So that it stays out of his way, he ties the arm of his shirt around the stub.

Personality: Khamir is a man who trusts no one but himself. He has endured so many things that have made him loathe so many, and it has only really been his hatred that has kept him alive for so long. Ideas of revenge are very attractive to him, and he believes strongly in concepts such as ‘an eye for an eye.’ Overall, he has also has a deep sense of justice, though it has been obscured slightly after spending so many years in the darkest place in the Middle-earth. He is looked upon as the leader of a gang of ex-slaves who scavenge the Ash-plains of Mordor. He is not much of a leader, nor is he very eloquent, but he is followed. He learned the Common Tongue as a boy, having been brought up in a fairly well to do household, and is not at all unintelligent. He simply chooses not to speak most of the time.

History: A Southron, born just a few miles north of Umbar, Khamir did not desire to join Mordor, refusing to ever fight alongside anyone but his fellow men. He had no love for Gondor or any of the other peoples of Middle-earth, but he was fiercely loyal to his own people, and believed that becoming Sauron’s minions was the end to the Haradrim’s power and independence. Because he would not willingly join the ranks under the Dark Lord’s command, he was made a slave when he was sixteen years old. His own father was the one who handed him over as a supposed traitor. He was made a slave and worked on the plantations for several years before the defeat of Sauron. After this defeat, he was able to escape from the plantations, along with many others; but, unlike many others, he was never recaptured. He joined up with a few other ex-slaves, and working as a team (though not always in the best of terms), they were able to scrounge up enough food and water for them to survive, if very hungrily. Mostly they are forced to and choose to steal. After he was praised for his bravery when he went even to the Mountain to look for water, the group of ex-slaves grew until he became the undeclared leader of a full out gang that set up base in the southern range of the Ephel Dûath. They make regular missions to different plantations that remain under the charge of both Orcs and Men. Their last mission met with disaster, leaving their numbers lower than they had been in almost a year: fifteen.

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I've started on the bio for my dwarf, and I'll hopefully have the done tomorrow, along with a post for him.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Durelin - I am wondering if yours should be the first post of the game and Aragorn's letter should be second?

Would you want to have the last sentence be that Khamir struggled to write and entrusted a ragged piece of paper with a message for the King to some sort of trader who had brought supplies to the "free" villages in the South. This trader is now going back to Minas Tirith. It is about 800 miles to Minas Tirith if you assume there's a hidden pass where the River Poros cuts into the mountains. Assuming you are on horseback at a realistic speed (4-5 mph), you could get to MT in 25-30 days. The same would be true for the fellowship on the return trip.

I will amend my post for Aragorn so that he will mention the slaves have promised to remain in their present location (caves at the mouth of that unnamed river that runs west from the Sea) for 2 months to see if help arrives and would then set out to the north, on their own if necessary. If we wanted to, the caves could be deserted when the fellowship comes galloping up and they go racing off in the direction the slaves have gone (Lindir is a scout and tracker) and meet up with them within the first day. Does this sound doable?

[Durelin]

Ah, that sounds good. I admit that I did purposely leave the writing of the letter out because I was not sure how to deal with it (where the group would be after it was written, how it got to Minas Tirith). I thought you'd have something in mind (and I should have asked).

I will edit that in very soon... And if we make that post the very first, then I'll put that at the end, to lead into yours. And I'll put in something about the caves, as well.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Got to run. Will do comments on the other questions later.

[Durelin]

Just saying that I edited my post.

And now I'm out.

[Child of the 7th Age]

POSTED TO THE PROPOSAL ~*~ PIO

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The old man sat huddled at his writing desk, spluttering and fuming under his breath as he fixed his attention on the paper in front of him. The message had been written on the finest parchment. At the top of the sheet he could see the seal of the King. In his intense concentration, Aiwendil had bent his upper body so close to the letter that his nose almost grazed the tabletop. The Istar had piercing blue eyes and a mop of dishevelled hair with grey locks falling forward into his face. An owl perched on his left shoulder and occasionally leaned over to nibble affectionately at his ear.

Rereading the message for the twenty-third time, Aiwendil sat upright, waggled his finger in the air, and glared across the room, trumpeting for the attention of his friend. He directed his words at an Elf who stood by the window gazing down on the buildings of Minas Tirith. The latter was called Lindir. He wore a travel stained cloak and plain brown breeches. Anyone observing this unassuming figure from a distance could easily have mistaken him for a Mannish farmer or even a tradesman. The only telltale hint of his origin was an intricate silver brooch clasped near his throat, a piece of amazing craftsmanship passed down from countless ages before.

The Elf had initially paid no attention to Aiwendil's obvious consternation. He was clearly used to his companion's whims. Now the Istar's voice rose sharp and insistent, "It says there is to be a Fellowship to rescue the soul of Mordor." Aiwendil fixed his eyes on Lindir and grimly shook his head, "Tell me. What have I got to do with Mordor? Does this assignment make sense? I know nothing about the slaves in Mordor. Plus, this is a mission for an army of young men, not for an old birdwatcher like myself."

Lindir's response was affectionate, almost as if he was humoring a child, "But you have just spent the past hour telling me how you found meaning in Harad and had decided to stay in Middle-earth to see if you could help. Frankly, I can think of no one in Arda who needs help more than these slaves of Mordor. The conditions there are appalling. They are in desperate need of someone to guide and protect them."

"Yes, that is the problem," the Istar countered. "There is this little matter about protection. Even in Harad I did not have to face a crowd of angry Orcs."

"It is dangerous. I cannot deny that. But if it makes you feel any better, I also received an invitation from the King, not an hour before, and I intend to say 'yes'."

"You too? What are we to have.... a First Age reunion? A pack of greybeards turned loose on the worst problems in the Reunited Kingdom? At least you look to be younger and in better shape than I am, though you lack the looks of Legalos."

At this point Lindir grinned broadly at his companion. But before the Elf could respond, Aiwendil had continued, "Couldn't the King have come up with some young blood? Or perhaps Aragorn has decided that we two are expendable." There was a wisp of a smile on the Istar's face.

"Aiwendil, I am ashamed of you! Look at this list. There is no lack of young healthy folk in our party. I expect that Aragorn felt a little seasoning was needed to keep these enthusiastic adventurers from running off a cliff. And surely the slaves we go to help could also benefit from a cool, sage head. I, for one, am looking forward to this. You are going, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am going," spluttered the old man, almost sounding offended. "How can there be a Fellowship without an Istar? And you didn't think I'd let you go off on your own with something as important as this?"

"But what about your manservant, that young fellow you speak so highly of? Is he also coming?"

"That is the interesting part," mused Aiwendil. "The last time I was at court, Rôg had the chance to speak with Elessar. The King talked with him some time and was so impressed that he has added his name to the list of adventurers quite apart from my own. I cannot say why for sure. Rôg has some unusual gifts. But I would suspect it is his knowledge of Harad and the East that impressed the King. The largest group of slaves in Mordor hail from those parts, and most men of Gondor know little of their ways. In any case, whatever Elessar's reason, it is a wise choice. Perhaps Rôg will come by before we leave and let us know his decision."

Lindir raised his eyebrows sharply. "And you were the one who said you knew nothing about the slaves of Mordor?"

"Perhaps I exaggerated a bit," the Istar responded drolly. "In any case, I will surely know more a month from now than I know today. We must leave in the morning. One other thing....it would be best if there was no mention of my background or homeland. For all practical purposes, I am an old Mannish teacher who will be teaching slaves how to do their sums and learn their letters."

"But what if you have to show your hand one day?"

"I'll deal with that then." With that terse answer, Aiwendil went over to the shelf, pulled down a book of maps, and began tracing out the route with his finger.

[piosenniel]

How does this look?
(Is Novnarwen playing?)


WRITER/CHARACTER LIST


Major Characters

Each poster should select one major character from list A or B below.


A. Group Sent Out by Aragorn – NO MORE PLAYERS NEEDED

• Child of the 7th Age – Lindir, Noldor Elf (metal crafter, scout)
  Child of the 7th Age – Radagast (Aiwendil), istar (teacher)
• Durelin – Dwarf (stone mason) - BIO/POST NEEDED
• piosenniel – Rog, East & Harad - BIO/POST NEEDED
• Tevildo – Dorran, Rohan (soldier) - BIO/POST NEEDED
• Folwren – Athwen, Rohan, Dorran’s wife (healer) – BIO/POST NEEDED
• Hilde Bracegirdle – Carl Cotton, Hobbit (farmer) – BIO/POST NEEDED
• Novnarwen – Man of Gondor, healer – BIO/POST NEEDED

**Each of the above characters should possess one or more skills that would be needed by the refugees to help establish the new settlements: scouting, working with stone and/or metal, soldiering/hunting, teaching, healing, farming. If anyone has thought of additional skills you'd like your character to have, please run these by the game founders.

***The healer and teacher skills may be female; others should be male


B. Inhabitants of Mordor

NOTE:

Slave escapee - one of the group of 50 people who just escaped from the plantation and have run down to the river to hide in the caves.

Ex-slave - one of a group of about 15 people who escaped from a plantation some time ago. They have already been hiding in the caves for a while, but their numbers have been severely decimated by frequent Orc attacks. They are the ones who advise the slave escapees that it is not wise to stay in the area, and they must all find someplace to go.

The two slave groups will be posting together from the beginning of the RPG

• Durelin – Khamir,Ex-slave
• Nogrod - Slave escapee (male) – BIO/POST NEEDED
• Regin Hardhammer -"Rebel" Orc (male) – BIO/POST NEEDED
• Undómë - 2 "Rebel" Orc sisters – BIO/POST NEEDED
  
  
• 1 Ex-slave (male) – PLAYER NEEDED
• 1 Slave escapee (male or female) – PLAYER NEEDED

~*~

Minor characters

These posters are encouraged to carry one minor character, generally one of the inhabitants of Mordor. You are free to pick and choose. However, if the list become too lopsided and everyone requests one character type (Orcs, for example), we may ask some writers to consider a different choice.

• Tevildo – slave, 12 y/o female - SHORT BIO ONLY NEEDED
• Nogrod - Orc - SHORT BIO ONLY NEEDED
• Regin Hardhammer - ? - SHORT BIO ONLY NEEDED
• Undómë – ex-slave (female) - SHORT BIO ONLY NEEDED
• Thinlómien (NO MAJOR CHARACTER) - SHORT BIO ONLY NEEDED
• Novnarwen - ? - SHORT BIO ONLY NEEDED
  
  
• & etc for any other players . . .