The Fellowship of the Fourth Age (Part 1): A New Beginning RPG

[Firefoot]

Johari

“But why should being free longer make them tougher than us?” retorted Johari. “If anything, they have endured less. Perhaps they do know more, but they treat us as if we were simply to be managed, like lesser beings rather than equals. They are no better than us, but they treat us as if they were.”

Hadith appeared thoughtful and paused before answering. “But maybe we're not their equals yet?” He shrugged, a gesture that briefly annoyed Johari. Didn’t he care?

"Not their equals in skill, maybe. But that does not give them the right to lord themselves over us." While she really did think these things, she knew in the back of her mind that she did not really have to sound so argumentative - but the rest of her really did want to provoke him.

Hadith bit his lip and took even longer supplying an answer this time. Johari was starting to become impatient when he finally said, "Maybe it's better that they answer for our security as they know things... and they have then to make orders so that everything goes well?" He appeared thoroughly pleased with this answer.

"I don't suppose I mind if they act as leaders," Johari regretfully conceded. "A group this big needs one. But it's the way they do it, acting as if we're more trouble than we're worth and it's only their duty to help us. I doubt they really want to at all, and if that's the way they feel, maybe they shouldn't. They managed, after all. Who are they to say that we couldn't do so as well?"

Hadith nodded hesitantly. "But they help us fare better?" he questioned, still appearing slightly puzzled.

Johari sighed. He so much wanted to believe in and admire them… at that moment, however, he was tossed a knife from Khamir – just the argument she needed. No wonder he is so taken by them. Johari almost hesitated in speaking further. Almost.

“There now,” she said quietly as he caught it. “They treat you as a favorite dog to be rewarded when he has done well. Why do you think you were not given a weapon before? Have they given any others knives to use?” She paused for a moment to emphasize her next words. “Because they do not trust us. They only ‘reward’ the ‘worthy’.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

The elf watched in silence as Carl emerged from the cave, shaking his head in bewilderment and exchanging puzzled glances with several of the group who now huddled together, peering down into the dark entry hole. Unable to add anything remotely helpful in this situation, Lindir slipped away and systematically began to investigate the rocky terrain, keeping an eye on the surrounding vegetation, sometimes stooping to kneel and inspect something that caught his eye on the ground.

Despite his methodical search of the area, he seemed to be getting nowhere. The ledge was blanketed with thick thorn bushes and clumps of tall grass that largely obscured the ground. It was impossible to see anything more than a foot or two away. The stoney surface made it difficult to walk and, even worse, concealed whatever footprints might have left an impression from a few days before. On the verge of giving up, Lindir suddenly remembered the stream they had passed as they'd approached the foothill. Sprinting back down the hill, the elf soon came to the water's edge. As luck would have it, the surrounding bank was still soft and muddy from the heavy rains that had fallen nearly a week ago. For some time, he walked eastward along the sloping bank.

If anyone had come this way, they had made an amazingly successful attempt to tred softly and leave no hint of their presence. But still there were one or two indications that human feet might have approached this brook and crossed over to the other side no more than a week before. A less experienced tracker might not have noticed the single footprint still embedded in the mud or the grasses on the opposing shore that were ever so slightly crushed and flattened.

After taking in these images, Lindir squatted down to inspect the greenery that grew where he was standing. It was then that he glimpsed it: a dull and lifeless scrap apparently discarded on the ground. A few yards away, higher on the bank, were the remnents of a small fire pit. In all his years on Arda, he had not seen an object exactly like this before, but it appeared to be something that a man or woman had crafted. There was one person, however, who might know enough to tell him more.

With his first glimmer of hope that the slaves might still be found, Lindir hurried to the top of the hill and called out eagerly to Dorran, who stood talking with his wife. He beckoned to the two. "Come with me. I found a footprint on the stream bank, far from the point where we originally crossed. A group of slaves might have come down this hill, splashed through the water, and then headed north." Lindir held out the mysterious object and pushed it into Dorran's outstretched hands. "Have you seen anything like this before? It looks to be a device crafted by men. Could it have belonged to one of the slaves, and does it tell us anything about what happened?"

[Folwren]

Athwen and Dorran stood together, each holding the rein of their horse. Neither of them said much as Carl came out of the cave, empty handed and with a look of disappointment on his face. Athwen sighed and looked down before lifting her eyes to Dorran's face.

“We’re too late, aren’t we?” she asked, barely speaking above a whisper. She didn’t want to spread doubt to the others, though she imagined they probably were thinking the same thing she was. Only her husband heard the words. He looked down at her and shrugged slightly.

They watched silently as Vrór went down into the cave. Athwen sighed very deeply and sat down on a large boulder nearby. Her horse tugged at his reins, reaching for a tiny clump of prickly looking grass. She looked at him and extended her arm just a little so he could reach it.

“What can we do now?” she asked herself. “How can we follow them in this hopeless terrain? There can’t be any tracks left!” A voice hailing from a hill above them caused Athwen to emerge from her thoughts and look up. She spotted Lindir, the elf, standing and waving with one hand as he called Dorran to come up to him.

Dorran looped his horse’s reins around a branch of a twisted tree and started up. Athwen watched him a moment before rising and deciding to follow. She tied her horse beside Dorran’s and started up the ascent.

As she approached, Athwen saw that Dorran held something in his hand. Both he and Lindir were looking at it as Lindir spoke. “Could it have belonged to one of the slaves," he asked, "and does it tell us anything about what happened?"

Athwen reached Dorran and silently she took his arm and looked over at the metal object in his hand. She said nothing, because she had nothing to say, and wondered if Dorran would be able to tell them what it was.

[Firefoot]

Grask’s rapid breathing was finally starting to ease as the threat of impending death drifted further from his mind. He had been tagging along with the group of Orcs who were intending to escape, slipping along very quietly and not catching any of their attentions. After all, no one had ever actually told him about their plan; he had only overheard, and he didn’t want any of them asking why he was there or sending him back. He didn’t want any place in the big battle.

Besides… wherever they were going was bound to be much more interesting than the camp they were in now.

He had not expected that this escape would involve a battle of its own! Swords were drawn, and soon blood was being spilt – and Grask was right in the middle of it. He had watched little fights and tussles before; he had seen Orcs kill other Orcs. That did not bother him in the least. What did bother him was being far too close to the action. They could hack him down without a thought; to them, he was little more than an obnoxious gnat. He needed to get out of there, and quick! He wasn’t supposed to die!

He had drawn his short sword as a just-in-case; after all, that was what he was supposed to do in a battle, right? But he was more concerned with running away and dodging the swinging blades than killing anyone. Once an Orc seemed to just appear in front of him with a sword; he had ducked and hacked at his leg as he continued to run past.

And suddenly he was free of it. He kept going in the direction that they had been heading before the fight, hoping he would figure out where they were supposed to be meeting. The fear that had engulfed him in the midst of the battle was already starting to subside; he had done it! He had survived – and even stabbed one of the big Orcs! That was no mock up battle like he had played in with other young Orcs – that had been real. He really could have died.

There was a new swing in his step as he arrived at where he supposed the meeting place was supposed to be, as there were already a couple of Orcs waiting there. A few more straggled in and then they were on the move – and at quite a fast pace, too. Grask didn’t dare complain; they would probably send him back. He wanted to ask how far they were going, but realized he did not know how to do so. Orcs like him just didn’t address the older Orcs; his like didn’t get to close, and they ignored him – simple as that. So as hard as it was for him to keep his mouth shut, he decided to wait until he knew which of them might actually listen to him.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Johari was pressing Hadith with too many too difficult questions. And she seemed not to be satisfied even though Hadith had managed to supply her with answers. Hadith was puzzled with all that she said to him and how he was responding to them. There was something new and strange going on in his mind. It was both exciting and distressing at the same time.

But all of a sudden Hadith was called for. He turned around to see Khamir and Beloan walking less than ten yards behind himself and Johari. “Here!” Khamir called out, throwing something towards him. He realised what it was just a moment before he catched it. It was a blade in a sheath! For a fleeting moment he wasn’t quite sure whether he should believe what had happened or not, but managed then to raise his head to look at the two old stagers. “I promise to be worth this!” he said attempting a firm tone. He then nodded to them quickly and turned around not to show his excitement.

Johari was saying something but he didn’t axactly hear her words. There were too many emotions rushing to and fro in his mind at the moment. He only heard the last one: “They only reward the worthy”, but not being able to catch the sarcasm in Johari’s tone of voice.

“I think so too” he answered Johari somewhat absent-mindedly, staring emptily forwards. “Although I’m not sure whether I’m worthy yet” he managed to half whisper, but then continued more purposefully: “But I’m going to try and show I am.” Johari seemed to have given up with him and didn’t answer.

He continued walking immersed in his thoughts and feelings. He knew that Beloan had been approving of his demeanour in hunting and guarding duties, but he had gotten the blade from Khamir himself. He could have exploded from pride! This really was his token of acceptance and he would pay back the trust. Hastily he opened the cords to have a proper look at the weapon given to him. The handle was worn out and quite crude, much cruder than the blade itself. But even though it was a bit ragged and simple, it allowed for a firm grip. Hadith swang the long-knife in the air a couple of times just to find out how it felt. Then he took a closer look at the blade itself. It shone in the sunlight, dazzling where it sent the rays of light. It seemingly had been well kept lately although time had made its marks on it. Still the edge of the blade was sharp enough, sharper than any scythe, sickle or knife Hadith had ever used on the plantation. It had somewhat an Easterling feel to it as the handle felt more like orc-work. Hadith decided not to puzzle his head with that, at least for the time being.

But in the middle of his private rejoicing other thoughts crept back to his mind. The discussion with Johari had stirred his mind and now those waves of unfinished thoughts rushed back to him with irresistible force. He glanced quickly to his side just to notice that Johari was not there any more but was walking a bit further away from him. Alone as usual.

It was only then that he became aware of it. Normally at the plantation people had discussed and done things together most of the times. Surely there were loners and all the discussions weren’t friendly, but still. And yes, most of the people here were from the same barracks, the barracks where he had lived too. He knew most of these people and they knew each other well enough. And it was so quiet! Like everyone were sticking to their own and only those who were really close walked side by side or changed an occasional word. Like Khala and Cuáran, the older women who were quietly talking as they walked together some yards in front of him. They were one of those people who had taken care of him when he was just a kid and his father had died and his mother had to work at another location. For a second Hadith thought of taking up with them and showing them the blade, but then thought the better of it.

Something was wrong here, but Hadith couldn’t see, what was it. And Johari’s questions and his own answers to them kept insistently coming back to his mind. He had never been this free and this self-assured before, but at the same time, he had never been this trapped or unsure of everything around him – and including himself. Puzzled he was.

[Tevildo]

As Dorran stared down at the cold metal object that lay quietly in his hand, dark and brooding memories came flooding back. A long-dead scar on his left forearm began to ache and throb.

Yes, he had seen this accursed thing before, and he certainly knew what it was, even if Lindir and his own wife did not. This was the branding iron of a slaver, the bounty hunters whom the owners paid to feed new victims to the plantations and recapture anyone who tried to flee. Some of these gangs were notorious, known throughout all of Nurn for their cruelty and the abilities of their dogs to sniff out anyone within a hundred leagues. Most bands were small, run by fierce fighters who at least had enough brains to bring in their prey comparatively undamaged. Each group had its own unique brand so there would be no doubt as to who should be rewarded for capturing and turning over a particular slave.

Most slaves in Mordor hid their brands unless the marks were on their face or hands. It was no badge of honor, but an open acknowledgment of servitude and shame. Sometimes at night, men and women sitting around a firepit spoke in hushed tones about their experiences, reliving the exact moment that they had been hauled in and marked. Even those children born into slavery, as Dorran's sister had been, bore the brand of whatever bounty hunter had originally captured their mother. The slavers lost no chance to ply a pretty penny on their trade, and this included the right to brand the offspring of those they had been captured many years before.

Struggling to keep his voice calm and to stop his hand from quaking, Dorran turned towards the elf to explain. When the young man had finished talking, Lindir responded in a worried tone, "But what does all this mean for the slaves who lived in these caves? And who are these bounty hunters?"

"Sorry but I can't help you on the last one. I know a number of the brands that belong to the Easterlings, but this one means nothing to me."

At this point, the trio reached the stream. Dorran held Athwen's hand in his until they arrived at the stretch of land where the metal object had been discovered and where the grass was slightly trampled on the far side of the bank. Carefully surveying the landscape, Dorran nodded towards the elf in agreement, "Lindir, you're right. The slaves came through here and headed north. I do not think the slavers got them, at least not at this point. There would be blood and more evidence of fighting. But still, I don't like it. Those thugs could be on their trail as we speak, or they might have even caught up with them already."

At this point, Lindir and Dorran exchanged grim glances. They had already been joined by several other members of the fellowship who'd made their way down the hill and were now passing the dreaded metal object from hand to hand.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur grew anxious as he waited for the group members to walk in front of him down the path. He waited for a long time, but only a few came. He started to worry that something had befallen their party and the rebellion would be stifled before the group could even leave Nurn. Someone must have been foolish and alerted the leaders to their departure. Even if that was true, Ishkur hoped some remnant of the exodus would survive such a battle. But every minute Ishkur spent kicking his rock, at first done for entertainment and now to alleviate fears, made him more nervous. He could never return to that infernal camp now that he had separated himself. Even if no one ever found out that he had participated in the rebellion, his mind would not let itself be enslaved again. No, even if every other orc had been killed, Ishkur must escape to the wilderness and live by himself. Hopefully, he prayed, some of the stronger orcs would survive the attack and the group would press forward, albeit much reduced in number.

Suddenly, orcs began trickling past him, running frantically away from the camp. They stopped only momentarily to acknowledge Ishkur’s presence, and make sure that they followed the correct path, but never gave him a word of explanation. They seemed to be running for their lives. The first to arrive were women, followed by male orcs with their weapons drawn, freshly stained with blood. So I have guessed correctly. Indeed, they have fought a battle.

Ishkur suspected that the Uruk-Hai commanders were responsible for the assault on the escaping orcs. Then, to his horror, he saw two Uruks running in the same direction as the rest of the group. At first he suspected that these creatures were merely a force sent by the commanders to eliminate those who fled. From the way they ran, however, it appeared that these Uruk-Hai did not intend to kill the rebels, but to join them. This realization disturbed him. Never had anyone mentioned that any Uruk-Hai would be joining them. Ishkur had always assumed that the escape consisted of pure orcs only. One of the reasons that Ishkur had joined the group was to escape from the haughty Uruk-Hai and never see them again. Their presence now infuriated him, but he had already made his decision to leave. Not even the stupid Uruks could change his mind now.

Ishkur waited as long as he could to make sure that every orc and even the Uruks knew which way to go. After a while he decided he must flee and that any stragglers would have to find a way on their own. After all, if the final orcs had not made it out of the camp by now the Uruks had probably killed them. The group didn’t need any orcs who could not take care of themselves in battle so the casualties did not hurt them much. He began to run hard in the same direction as those he had guided and in a little while caught up with the others. About fifteen total had made it, including three Uruk-Hai who had pushed their way to the front of the group. Even out here, moaned Ishkur, they continue to be a thorn in my side.

Underneath the new moon in the cold dark sky, the rebel orcs ran down the path to the west as quickly as they could. Many of the orcs looked exhausted. The battle had drained energy from them and caused them to move sluggishly. But Ishkur knew they could not stop now, so close to the encampment. The Uruk-Hai commanders had probably sent squads of troops after them who were following their every footstep. The group continued marching without torches to guide their way through the blackness to avoid being detected. Ishkur well knew what a fine target a torch made to enemy pursuers even from long distances. He had signalled to the whole group that they could use no torches if they wanted to avoid being seen. Ishkur wanted to establish himself as one of the group’s leaders and their obedience to his suggestion pleased him greatly.

From the corner of his eye, Ishkur saw his old battle companion, Gwerr. They had fought together for longer than he could remember in various confrontations against the enemies of Sauron. Although the two had never been in the same unit, over the years they had developed a tentative sense of trust. Ishkur knew that Gwerr would be joining the group, and had even spoken with him secretly about it, but this was the first time he had actually seen him in a while. He gave a quick nod to Gwerr and looked him over to make sure that he had not been wounded. After assuring himself that Gwerr looked completely healthy and appeared to have survived the battle without injury, Ishkur continued to run alongside him.

Later on, the first rays of the morning sun appeared over the distant horizon. Soon the sun would rise high into the sky, and the journey would become uncomfortable for the orcs. Ishkur hated the sun with a passion and could not stand to be out in it for long. Ishkur knew that as soon as the day began in earnest, all of the orcs would start to feel extreme discomfort. Now was the time to set up camp.

Ishkur yelled, “Stop the group. The sun is coming soon and the bad light will burn our eyes. Now we must set up camp and sleep. We cannot continue anymore tonigh.t”

He waited to see how the group would respond, hoping that they would heed his wise advice and set up camp.