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

[Tevildo]

At some point during the wild dash over the plains, Azhar blacked out and did not awaken until after the slavers' band had arrived back in camp. When she finally came to, she was no longer straddled over Imak's saddle but confined inside some kind of makeshift holding pen, sitting by herself in total darkness. Her hands had been restrained with thick ropes that were secured behind her back. There was a shackle around her left ankle attached to a short metal chain that had been embedded in the prison wall. Her skin was chaffed and raw where the cruel metal anklet had rubbed against her leg.

Azhar's heart thumped wildly against her chest. At first, she could see nothing and when she frantically whispered in the darkness to find out if Kwell was nearby, she was met with ominous silence. Minutes passed, and then an hour, and still no one came. Lying down to sleep that evening, she had almost been ready to give up, complaining about the miserable conditions and wondering if it wouldn't have been easier to stay behind and simply beg the guards for the scraps that fell from their plates. Yet, strangely enough, here in the most dire circumstances she had faced, Azhar refused to despair. There was something inside that could not believe her dream would die inside this bleak fortress without a shred of hope or the gentle touch of a human hand.

How many times had she sat around the firepit and heard stories about the men and women of the West who had risen up to overthrow the might of Mordor? She'd memorized all those names: Aragorn, Gandalf, Faramir, and especially the Lady Eowyn. Those stories were shared in hushed voices in the middle of the night, passed along at great risk since there was always the chance that a guard might overhear.

Now, all alone in the blackness, with every rational hope extinguished, Azhar was beginning to wonder if she could possibly be a small part of that same story. All she wanted was a chance to live without the guards always telling her what to do. The young slave swore to herself that she would no longer agree to carry water. She would adamently refuse to roll over and die like some old dog that been kicked in the ribs and left along the roadside.

For the first time ever, Azhar was angry and aware that the slaves had suffered a great and preventable injustice, although she could not have put that feeling into words. At least she wanted to be able to defend herself. It was wrong that only the male escapees had been allowed to practice with weapons. She was as smart and nimble as any of them, and what she lacked in strength, she made up for in speed. Azhar swore that, if she ever got out of this pigsty, she would persuade Khamir or one of the other slave leaders to teach her how to use a bow or sword.

In the midst of all this thinking, a grating noise sounded above her head, like a latch being drawn back and a wooden door being removed. Craning her neck upward, she could just see the shadowy outline of a few stars twinkling in the night. They seemed to be beckoning her onward, offering her a tempting promise of life beyond this miserable cell. Her gentle dream was abruptly terminated when Imak's glaring face stared down from above. Suddenly, a body was hurled down into the pit, the hands and ankles bound with rope. As the shapeless form hit the ground, there was a mighty thud and then it rolled helplessly over to the side wall. To her great relief, Azhar heard someone cursing.

She waited a minute and then spoke, "Kwell, is that you?"

The answer came back sharp and acerbic, "Well, who else did you think would be visiting you in a place like this?"

[piosenniel]

Durelin’s post


A man who can converse with the birds?

Vrór, growing up under what was once the Lonely Mountain, had heard the tale of Bard on many occasions, and how the man could actually speak to and understand the thrush, though it was said that those birds could understand most speech. Now there was something the Dwarf had always wondered when told those stories – was it only the Common Tongue it could understand? But Vrór could only stare at the old man, and did not really hear a question asked. Were not men such as Bard long deceased?

“We have to reach the slaves before that gang of thugs and miscreants do, or I fear there’ll be no one left.” Vrór’s conscious return to the conversation was not a pleasant one.

He opened his mouth, but found it impossible to form words, or any sound at all. No one left? All…captured or dead? He truly felt that he would prefer death to being recaptured and forced back into chains, and that thought disturbed him to the bone. It was not natural for one to wish death on oneself. It was a horrible thing indeed that anyone would be left with two options, one worse even than being forced to leave this world in brutality and pain. Vrór certainly didn’t want to have to make that kind of choice, and right now, he did not even want to be faced with the decision of what to do next. It seemed Aiwendil had decided for them, though, and that didn’t sit too well with the Dwarf. He was sure that the old man was quite wise, but Vrór couldn’t help but thinking he was a little far off his rocker. Age could do that to you, among other things.

He waited respectfully, if a bit anxiously, for the old man to return from speaking with Rôg, who had pulled him aside. Vrór also couldn’t help but strain his ears, though he felt as guilty as a little boy peeking at his present. As soon as the two were finished, and the Haradrim ventured off on his own – something which Vrór spared a second to wonder about – immediately piped up. “But surely we can’t leave…now? We have naught but a general direction, and I…I’d be a warbler if any of you think you can track this group across Mordor, particularly when we’ve presumably got at least two different tracks on our hands. We’re no help to those slaves if we get ourselves into as deep a trouble as they, according to you, seem to be. With no offense meant to you, Master Aiwendil.”

Vrór couldn’t help but be gruff with his words. He was disturbed by this suggestion. Simply running off across Mordor was not what he had signed up for, nor did it seem rational enough to him. A headlong charge of a rescue mission wasn’t going to get them, or the slaves, anywhere, as far as he was concerned. Still, he regretted the harshness that might have been behind his words, and was glad that he had not added in any mention of a threat to give up on this Fellowship. It would have been an outright lie, anyway.

The Elf’s rather candid explanation of what the device they had found was had opened Vrór’s eyes, and though the understanding he came to of how much pain that single chunk of iron represented was a great one, he wished he had never laid his eyes on it, and for a good long moment, that he had never stepped foot in Mordor. But how could he, or anyone, abandon a being to such a fate as…that. Being branded like an animal, and treated like a disease. There was already so much sickness in this land that Vrór doubted could be healed. If they let just one more thing end as it would without intervention, they would perhaps be worse than the slavers themselves.

He felt strongly about doing good in this world, and though he rarely thought about other worlds, he was an idealist at heart. But he also felt strongly attached to the earth, particularly to rock and stone, and never let idealism whisk away his sensibilities. He desired direction, a plan, a map, a blueprint…something other than an ideal. But with an Elf and a man who could talk to birds, he doubted he would get so much as a push onto the determined path.


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piosenniel’s post

Aiwendil was in one of his agitated moods. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, Rôg tried to keep a close eye on the old fellow. There was a vein near his left temple that throbbed when a situation was critical. And as Rôg craned his neck for a better view of the happenings, he could clearly see the thump-thump of the vessel beneath the skin.

He stood as quietly as he could, waiting for Aiwendil to finish speaking to Lindir. As was usual, he could not read the Elf’s response to Aiwendil’s urgent pleas. Elves . . . very odd creatures he thought. And this opinion despite the number of those he’d met in the old man’s company. Study them as one might, it was impossible to get a clear read on what was going on behind those finely chiseled features.

At a small pause in the mostly one-sided conversation, Rôg plucked lightly at the sleeve of Aiwendil’s robe. ‘I could,’ he said lowering his voice to an imperceptible level, ‘well . . . take a look-see around, you know. If you want, that is.’ He raised his brow to Aiwendil. ‘I’d leave it to you, of course, to explain where I’d gone off to.’ He paused and pursed his lips, thinking. ‘They most likely think I’m odd enough as it is. I suppose you could tell them, I’ve recently taken up the study of some, oh, say . . . bat, perhaps . . . hmmm, yes, one that’s indigenous to Mordor . . . that should do, don’t you think? Up to you, though.’

Rôg stepped back a half pace, giving Aiwendil room to consider the offer.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil peered evenly at Rôg and then beckoned him over to the side. Despite the potentially dire situation, the old man was clearly struggling to keep from smiling. For more than a minute, Aiwendil said nothing, apparently weighing a number of options. When he finally responded, his voice sounded mildly approving.

"Ahem.... Really not a bad idea at all. I had not quite thought along those lines. Of course, I might go study those bats too." The thought of the bats seemed strangely enticing to the old man. "But that might not be wise. Both of us can't simply disappear. I suppose it wouldn't take you very long?"

Rôg nodded mutely in agreement.

"Well then, it's settled. Plus, Elessar concurred it was important that we make a thorough listing of the birds and beasts who managed to survive all this ruin and ruckus over here. Who knows what you might find?" The istar gave a conspiratorial wink and then added one additional note of assurance, "Carl and Athwen haven't finished their work. The group can't leave till they are done, even if we should decide to ride out tonight. So just make sure to return in a little while or you may find yourself.... ah....shall we say....running to catch up."

[Novnarwen]

Aedhild

Screams of terror stirred Aedhild from her slumber. Her first impulse was to run, run as far as she could, convinced that her fears were about to become reality; the terrible creatures from the plantation had found them, and the chase had started. Her first attempt to run failed however; the days of marching had unfortunately been too harsh on her, and her legs could not carry her. "The devils," she shouted, before falling to the ground with a thud. She cried in despair. "Let them take me! Let them take me! They'll see what an old hag can do in those fields!" Her voice both bitter and desperate, it seemed to pierce through the air. She couldn't tell where the other slaves were positioned; when camping for the night, she usually withdrew to a quieter place, to be by herself, preferably as far away from the others. Now, she could only hear them running and shouting.

"We have to go after them!" A man called out. With further thought Aedhild recognized the voice of the man named Eirnar; he had been one of the slaves who had experienced freedom longer than she had, having run from the plantation and slavery years before and lived in the caves and waited for the right opportunity to seek out his dreams ever since. She liked him; his sincerity witnessed of a kindness that she had not known in anyone else. When she woke from consciousness after her fit, he had been there. She smiled at this memory.

"Go after them?" she muttered. Who in their right minds would go after those foul creatures! ... if I know them correctly, they will come back.. with a whole band.. they will force us back to slavery and to death. Heh.. I say, run! She wailed in horror.

Suddenly, a feeling that she knew all to well, but was not quite able to define pierced through her and took complete control. It was as if she was standing before her body, watching how something alien and not herself was taking possession of her. She could not resist it, and without realising it herself, the calm and quiet Aedhild vanished as if she had never existed.

By the devils she would go back to that place. No! It was as if she had been given new energy, as if she wasn't able to feel weakness anymore. Rising steadily, she rushed forwards; her eyesight not as keen in the dark, she ran forwards without aim or purpose, hoping to... in truth, not hoping for anything in particular. She simply just ran, like she had dreamed of so many times. She let her legs carry her, although they were far from fit to do it. Again she heard Eirnar's voice, eager and anxious at the same time. It seemed that he was trying to convince someone else to run after them. "Quickly! We must follow their trail! Khamir, we cannot just stand here! We must do something!" There was bitterness in his voice, even a trace of reproach.

Narrowing her eyes, Aedhild ran for the voice. What was this man thinking? She didn't care if it was Eirnar. Who was he, other than the man who had been there when recovering from her fit? "A t-t-traitor!" she called.

The sight of her was a horrid one. Again, the woman seemed to leave all her sensibility behind, only to rush into a situation she would be better without. This was something that the others couldn't understand, even if they wanted to, they couldn't. Aedhild didn't understand it either, nor was she able to comprehend it; she wasn't aware of how she seemed to change, all depending on the nature of the given situation; she could not, because in truth, it was suspected that there was no real Aedhild. Whether this had been caused by the hardships of slavery, or her background, which she herself could not recall, no one knew.

"Who? Who is a traitor?" A strong, firm hand grasped her by the arm. For a moment, she resisted, trying to hit back, muttering curses. The one-armed man's penetrating eyes didn't scare her, but they were enough to make her feel weak again and her legs were aching as badly as before.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

It was not long before Carl, gazing intently at the ground, noticed a long shadow slip over the stony soil beside him. Looking over his shoulder he saw that Athwen had joined him, an earnest expression on her face. “Tell me what you think you might find and I’ll help you look,” she offered.

The hobbit sighed deeply. “If only I knew, Miss,” he said, shaking his head. “Not a trail of cherry stones or cake crumbs, of that much I feel reasonably certain. But hopefully something will turn up if we look carefully.”

Reaching for a branch of yet another spiny and unfamiliar plant, Carl twisted off a leafy sprig. He looked at it absently, and out of habit crumbled a leaf to smell its fragrance. “These prickers ought to be good for something other than catching hobbits.” And seeing Athwen’s questioning look, he lifted his torn sleeve as evidence, for her to see. “I figured if I got caught on one, chances are someone else would too. They might have left us a flag, so to speak. And then maybe we will find something to cheer us, eh? Footprints or some such thing.”

Athwen nodded her understanding, and the two decided to divide the area north of the cave. Tucking her golden hair behind her ears, Athwen searched to Carl’s left while the hobbit continued in the direction he had been going. He was glad for her help, and together they quickly made their way toward a ridge that extended from the mountains like a giant rocky root. The stream turned to follow the ridge running along the rough shingle at its base. They were about to give up when Athwen gave a happy cry, and Carl ran to her, his bare feet scattering stones as he went.

There at Athwen’s feet lay a smooth stone, no bigger than the hobbit’s palm. And on the stone a rough symbol was lightly scratched, a tree with the moon to one side of it. Four small marks also were carefully drawn within the moon’s crescent.

“It’s the white tree of Gondor,” Athwen said smiling. “Someone has left us a sign!”

“A treasure you are, and your eyes too! How is it that you managed to see that small stone out of so many!” Carl said, picking up it up. “but I wonder what the moon means and the marks that are in it? It looks for all the world like a little chicken’s foot!”

“The moon might stand for Ithilien,” she answered, “but I’m afraid that the bird foot is a mystery to me.”

Carl looked at the drawing closely. “You know,” he said, “This reminds of a game I saw the children of the Pelennor play. They hide; leaving such tokens to help the others find them.”

“Yes, I have heard of it. But hadn't we better let the others know what we’ve found,” Athwen said.

“Of course, you are right!” And Carl bounded heavily over the terrain, like a awkward puppy running before Athwen, waving the stone over his head and shouting excitedly to the others, “Hey, hello! Miss Athwen has found us something.”

[Nogrod]

Hadith

I’ve lost my knife! I’ve lost it! After they had lightly bandaged his head and shoulder, Khala and Cuáran had left him alone to help with the other wounded. This is so humiliating! How I hate Fewerth!

The Easterling’s mutilated body lay face down a couple of feet from him. He had had a beautiful dark reddish brown coat that was now ripped and smeared all over with his own blood. He had had boots too but they had been taken away from him by someone. Hadith couldn’t see his spear either. I tiny shimmer of hope entered Hadith’s conciousness. If they haven’t turned him around, he might still have his knife! It might be even better than the one Khamir gave me! With that he rose quickly, feeling a bit dizzy at first from the effort but then went to the body to take a closer look at it.

He turned the body around. The fear that had frozen in his eyes was something Hadith couldn’t quite face. The man was young, not much older than Hadith was. Hadith could see it even though his face was bruised pretty badly. For a short while he was just embarrassed. The Easterling didn’t look like a mighty warrior or brutal villain, but like an ordinary young lad. He studied the corpse in haste. There was nothing left. Everything of any value had been ripped off him already.

Hadith turned the corpse back face on the ground and stood up. They trusted me with a knife and what did I do? I lost it! I’ve betrayed their confidence in me, I’ve totally bungled it! He felt desperate. There was no way that he could save himself from the humiliation now. They would find out sooner or later that he had lost his knife. So he should confess his shortcomings preferably know than later. On the plantation one always got over with easier punishment if one confessed early. Hadith had learned this just too well. Fewerth was always good at that! He suddenly remembered and his anger towards Fewerth rose again. Maybe I should just go to him and demand my knife back? Khamir could testify that it is the one given to me. Hadith was still standing by the side of the dead Easterling. He bit his lip, not knowing what to do. A single teardrop ran slowly down his dirty cheek.

But one didn’t peach against others. Not if they were true men. Hadith’s mother had been firm with this lesson and Hadith had taken it to his heart. Even as Fewerth had had been the one who had acted foully, he would not let on him. He would settle the matter with him, though. But as he was not sure when or how he could make it, he realised to his horror that he still would have to go and make the humiliating confession to Khamir.

With a heavy heart he started looking for Khamir. Will they ever trust me with a blade again? They will think of me not worthy any more...

“I don’t have time for this, Hadith” Khamir had answered him as he had addressed him with his troubles. That had been even more humiliating. And to top his anguish, he had gone and slipped Fewerth’s name to make his claim. He had been so nervous! He had planned all he would say when he would meet Khamir, but what happened? Just nervous mumbling and betrayal.

But it was Khamir’s words that made him actually to realise the situation. Many people were wounded, some might even be dead. How about that young girl who was attacked by the dog? He hadn’t checked or even asked about the girl after the skirmish was over. He had been so full of his loss of a knife he had forgotten about other people. Now he was not only humiliated but also ashamed of himself. His first test at being a worthy man and a defender of others had proven a disaster.

Suddenly he heard Khamir addressing him: “Hadith, come here,” he called him and gave him the knife he had taken from Adnan. “If you lose your knife again, to anyone, I cannot say you’ll get another.” Hadith was quite baffled of this new twist of fate. He took the knife and bowed to Khamir, but as he was trying to open his mouth to thank for the confidence or to promise to keep this one more carefully, Khamir had already turned away to address the others.

Hadith took his leave without asking as Khamir clearly seemed busy. I should do at least something right today, he thought to himself and took to looking for the older ladies. He found Khala and Cuáran soon enough and helped them with an older man who had a nasty cut in his side. But his mind was mainly preoccupied with solitary reproaches.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

“You are right Ishkur. And the less we have food, the more eager those Wizard’s Wonderboys are getting rid of us.” Gwerr answered Ishkur while Colagar was nodding to both of them. The sun had already risen and the cold morning light painted the plains farther away. The line between light and shadow was moving towards them with a pace one could almost see.

“But coming across a group of others in here? We would be lucky indeed!” Gwerr continued after a short pause. “Who would be travelling here? The trade caravans yes, but you all know how heavily guarded they are.” Gwerr’s words didn’t sound encouraging and they weren’t meant to. They had very little meat indeed and he didn’t see any easy way to get more any time soon.

Gwerr took his piece of dried meat and carved a bite from it with his knife. He was slowly chewing it as he noted Ishkur following his eating with a gaze that could not be misinterpreted.

“Haven’t you eaten anything tonight?” Gwerr asked him a bit concernedly. Ishkur was important to them as he had brains and experience, and against the Uruks they would need all the able orcs when it would come to a confrontation. And they had been around so long that it felt somewhat wrong to see him starve. “And you have none with you?” Gwerr continued, quite not believing what he saw. I’ll have to rework my ideas about him and the brains...

Frowning he cut another bite of the meat and handed it towards Ishkur. “Eat, we don’t need you dead.”