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

[Folwren]

Kwell could not believe his senses, and for good reason. They were disoriented, at the least, at this moment. Yet he couldn’t defy the fact that someone (and he knew who) had been added to the pit just minutes after him. He wanted to cry and curse and yell all at the same time, but years of forced silence kept him quiet. For the moment, at least, it was not difficult to say nothing. They hadn’t been gentle, bringing him back and throwing him down, and he thought that saying anything or moving an inch would hurt. So he lay in silence, curled up on his side, both his hands pressed to his pounding head.

A slight movement from behind him caught his ears. Azhar was crawling towards him.

“Kwell?” she said, half whispering. “Kwell, are you alright?”

“You fool,” Kwell hissed in return. His chest heaved with anger. “You idiotic fool! Why didn’t you run? I gave you everything! I gave you all the time in the world - I even was distracting them - and you didn’t run! Given half the chance you were given, I would have taken it, but you came back. What good do you think it does me having you here? You’re just a little whelp I have to look after when I could be spending all my attention on myself and getting me out alive.” He growled in frustration and pain.

“I thought,” Azhar said timidly when Kwell paused a moment, “I thought you’d be able to escape, too, and when you didn’t-”

“I can’t escape when I have three grown men on top of me!” Kwell snapped, twisted about to face her. But that movement sent stars shooting up before his eyes and daggers of pain up into his skull. His hands clapped to his head again. Azhar darted immediately to his side.

“Kwell, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just hit my head, again. They pounded me, ‘s all. I’ll be alright.” Perhaps this was true and he would be alright. His head throbbed as though it would burst, though, and each time he moved himself enough to make the slightest jarring, the pain redoubled. He didn’t doubt, though, that half of the head ache was caused by the fact that Azhar hadn’t taken her chance and had been brought back. He couldn’t understand it, and it angered him to the point of infuriation. He had been willing to suffer for her, so long as she escaped, but now it all seemed useless.

Untwining his arms from his head so he could look up towards her face, he asked her: “Why didn’t you run?”

[Undómë]

Undómë's post - Zagra and Mazhg


‘Oh! What’s this? From a tall basket, covered over with a clean cloth, came a most enticing smell. Mazhg’s belly growled, remembering a similar odor in the cookhouses near the plantations. It was something for the men from the south who managed the slaves. Mazhg’s brow crinkled as she sought to remember the name. Wheat-bread! Yes, that was it. It was said to be soft and tasty. The Orc women and children, though, were never allowed to have any…only to grow and harvest the grains that went into it; grind them to fine flour while lashed to the wheel that turned the stones; fetch the wood for the ovens… Well, she and Zagra would have it now, wouldn’t they?

Mazhg piled the dried meat, the journey-bread, the tubers, and the basket of man-bread by the slit at the back of the tent. She peeked out her head to see that all was well. Zagra nodded to her, though the nod was followed by a quick twist of her head to the right. Mazhg crawled out of the tent to look where her sister had pointed. There, crouched down by some leafless bushes was one of the other women.

‘Must have followed along behind us,’ Zagra whispered to her sister.

‘You! Girl!’ growled Mazhg in a low voice. ‘Get over here and give us a hand!’ She re-entered the tent and began to quietly shove the food through the slit. She was about to make her exit when some colorful pieces of cloth caught her eye. Bright, swirly patterns shone softly in the light from the single candle lantern that burnt near the door. Soft cloth and finely woven. She remembered seeing the southern men wear them wrapped about their heads or tied about the tops of their breeches as they snapped out orders to the slaves and flicked their whips. Mazhg grabbed up several from the neatly folded pile and stuffed them in the waistband of her breeches.

The three women hurried away from the tent and in the shadow of the trees shoved as much of the stolen food as they could into their traveling bags. The girl, they had not asked her name yet, was given the basket of bread to carry along. The trio made their way back to the rocky encampment.

‘What’s your name, girl?’ Zagra asked as Mazhg divided up the spoils they’d made away with, giving a fair portion to their helper. The two sisters had already given their names. But before the woman could answer, Mazhg hauled out the silky sashes, and let them stream out in the night breeze.

‘Not just things for inside the belly,’ she laughed, her teeth flashing in the moonlight. ‘Look, look! Pretty things, too. Just for us!’ She handed each of the other two women one and wrapped one about her waist, tying it in a clumsy knot.


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Regin Hardhammer's post - Ungolt


Once they’d finished tying on the sashes, the younger orc replied to the two sisters meekly, “My name is Ungolt. I followed you so that I could get some food, because I am very hungry. I have been forced to work in breeding colonies all my life up on the northern plain. After the fall of the Great Eye, I ran away to Nurn. I joined the rebels because I didn’t want to be hurt when the Easterlings made war on the orcs.” Thank you for the pretty scarf. I especially like the rich colors. I have never seen anything like this before.

Ungolt looked up uncertainly, “Perhaps, we could help each other. I don’t know how to forage for food or steal because I never had to do it. But I am good with my hands. I weave baskets, carve wood, and shape clay pots and am even good at making horseshoes on the forge. You see, I used to sneak in when the smith wasn’t looking. Oh, yes, and I can run like the wind. I am faster than most of the men. I’ve had an awful lot of experience running away. Someday, I’m going to learn to fight, just like the men. If you could help me get food, I would run messages for you or make you pots and baskets and other things you’ll need when we get to where we’re going.”


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Undómë's post - Zagra and Mazhg


Zagra whispered hurriedly to her sister. And Mazhg’s eyes flicked often to the young woman as her sister spoke. Nodding her head, Mazhg stepped forward when her sister had finished talking and went slowly around Ungolt, looking her over.

‘So you want to stick close with us? Hmmm, I see you’ve got a nice big club. That’s good. We’ll be needing another strong arm for what we want to do.’ She narrowed her eyes and thought for a moment. If this woman had spent all her life in the breeding colonies as had they, then perhaps she was of a similar mind as them.

‘I heard we were going up north a bit to find a place for ourselves; have our own land to farm and hunt in.’ Mazhg looked at her sister. ‘Now, me and Zagra aren’t of a mind to hitch up with any of the men like some of the other women are thinking of doing or have done. We want our own little place to grow crops on and I have some skill with little traps for smaller game. We don’t mind doing some trading with the others, we just don’t want to be under any man’s fat, hairy thumb. If you worked in the colonies, you must have learned some things about planting and growing and harvesting. We could work our own piece of land once we get it and you’d be welcome to join in.’

Zagra nodded her head, and smiled shyly at Ungolt. ‘I can help you make your baskets. I’m good a gathering sweet grass, and shredding bark into strips. I used to do it while we watched the babies. The older women would weave them into baskets for the babies to sleep in.’ Zagra cast her eyes down, then looked up hopefully. ‘And maybe you could teach me how to make baskets, too.’

‘Anyway, we’ll keep you in food,’ Mazhg went on. ‘And I’m sure if you stick close, you’ll pick up a few tricks on how to keep yourself from going hungry.’ She grinned at Ungolt and Zagra. ‘With three pairs of hands we should be able to get along just fine.’

[Durelin]

Khamir

At first, Khamir was surprised that Shae would stand up, and actually defend him. But it quickly turned for the worse, and even more quickly the man’s surprise turned to anger. Foolish woman; she would’ve gotten herself killed by now if he hadn’t been looking after her. And right now he felt that the others weren’t any better. To think he had trusted them for years, guarding his back. He had allowed himself to sleep at nights, even next to a man he knew was armed, because he trusted them. Perhaps he was just lucky to be alive. Maybe trust had nothing to do with it. Maybe it was all a matter of survival.

And that was all his goal had been, for years...until they showed up. Those fifty wanderers. He had let himself go soft, let himself get caught up in dreams while reality was rushing past him, and now he found himself left in the dust. It was back to mere survival. And his chances weren’t great. Shae’s gift to Johari didn’t help increase them much, either. That girl with a knife...Khamir nearly shuddered. If she got fed up with any of them, he would have no doubt she wouldn’t hesitate to slit their throats. And in such a large camp, there was a good chance there would be no way to prove she had anything to do with it. She certainly seemed capable of coming up with a reason for doing it, though.

Khamir stared at Shae as she walked away, his one hand gripped tightly into a fist. For several moments no words would come out. At least even in his rage the Southron had a good head on his shoulders. He knew to think before he spoke. Another thing he had to learn to survive, though it seemed insignificant. But even if words were about to come to him, he did not have time to speak.

“Do you know what they are quarrelling about?” came a voice from somewhere above him. It seemed the mad woman had some kind of wits about her again - at least enough to speak. His eyebrow raised as he looked at her, he lasted but a second before he succumbed to laughter. Completely oblivious, though not ignorant, unfortunately for her. Still, it seemed likely to Khamir that she was the least mad of anyone present.

The woman’s response seemed to betray remnants of a woman who had lived a normal life, had been a mother, had loved her children and scolded them because she did. It made Khamir feel even sorer at heart, which in turn helped his irritability along rather than softening him. He snapped at her. And then came words the echoed in his mind for moments after, imprinted there, and so able to be recalled at any time, even unto the very sound of her shrill voice as she spluttered and shrieked. Her frozen body on the ground was a testament to how the one-armed man felt.

You child of Mordor!

He had been born Haradrim but he had forsaken that country long ago, and he would never say he belonged to any other. He was the man he was because of a need to survive and a desire for revenge. He had allowed this land to shape him in more ways than he had ever realized; he was not a man built by his choices in life, he was one formed by the very things that tried to bring him down. He had not gained his freedom. Would he ever be able to?

Perhaps it was time he tried.

He helped Eirnar pick up Aedhild and move her to where she could be cared for, but Khamir returned to the same spot where he sat, though he stood now.

“Johari,” he called out to the young woman. She hadn’t moved on yet, though he expected she would try and get away from everyone ask quick as she could, if she didn't have anything left to say. “If I were the man I wanted to be, everyone would be the same to me. But I will tell you now that I see uses for people. If you think that is wrong, then so be it. But I am here to survive, just like you, just like everyone else. I am here to help everyone survive that I can. Maybe I would be smarter if I only looked after myself...like you...like everyone else in this forsaken land.”

His voice was even except for his final words, which he spat violently as a curse. He turned away, prepared to escape the turmoil in the camp somehow, though he knew how unlikely it was he would be able to do that. Suddenly he felt a tug at his shirt, and turned to see Adnan. The boy held out his knife to the man, and Khamir looked down at him for several quiet moments between them that dragged on.

“I don’t want it,” the boy finally said. Khamir could tell he was trying very hard not to cry. Adnan looked down at his feet, his eyes glistening.

“Keep it,” the one-armed man said, turning away. The knife fell with a small thud into the grass.

“Pick it up, boy. You’ll need it, and you’ll use it well,” he looked back down at the boy, with a warm twist of his lips. “You’ve got the third watch tonight.” The blade was back in the boy’s hands, and he looked up at Khamir, a smile starting to form in his face. But then he ran off, gripping the blade in its makeshift sheath, wishing to hide even tears dashed with joy. With a sigh, Khamir settled himself back down in the grass. He wouldn’t be able to escape this mess, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

[Child of the 7th Age]

By the time Lindir reached the camp, a carpet of stars glittered overhead like a panoply of sparkling jewels. The fires burned low on the grassy slope, where the members of the fellowship now sat in silence, awaiting word on whether or not the group would ride through the night and what their destination would be.

Slowly approaching the circle, Lindir squatted beside the fire pit, gently prodding the soft golden embers with a long pointed stick. He watched as a single tongue of flame glowed red and leapt up from a half charred log, illuminating the weary faces about him, and then receded just as quickly. Pausing once to meet Aiwendil’s eyes before he began, the Elf turned to the issue at hand. "We will camp here for a few hours. We can not ride on without some sleep. Since I have less need of rest than some, I will keep watch and awaken the camp before sunrise. Keep your packs and weapons close by. Be prepared to ride hard before the first light of morning."

Aiwendil nodded at Vrór, "I am afraid this means you will need to double up with one of the riders. Athwen, make sure your healer’s satchel is well stocked, for I do not know what we will find at the end of our journey.”

“But how can we ride hard in the night when we do not even know where we are going?” . The Dwarf threw Lindir a puzzled glance.

“Ah, but that is the beauty of it. Thanks to Aiwendil, we now know where both the slaves and their pursuers are camped as well as the fact that the slavers have kidnapped two of the children. I am certain that, with Dorran’s help, we can ride swiftly over the Ash Plain and rescue those who are imprisoned. After that, we will make our way back to the slave camp and see what help we can offer them.”

“Any questions? If not, the rest of you should get some sleep. There's only a few hours until we must ride again." The Elf turned to go to his watch position on the outskirts of camp, while fervently hoping that no one would stop to question the information he had provided.

[Tevildo]

"Why didn't I run?" Azhar repeated the question out loud as if she was considering it for the first time. Then she turned and glared furiously at Kwell, her words edged with bitterness. "I knew you wouldn't understand. I knew it. I thought you were hurt. I thought you needed help. Those monsters had hurt you, and I wanted to help. But I guess you can't take help from anyone. You've got to do everything yourself."

Azhar privately wondered whether all young men were as stubborn as Kwell. She seriously hoped not. "Look, I am sorry," she added. "I know you're angry because I didn't take the chance to get away. But sometimes it's more important to stand by a friend. Anyways, I had to tell you something that couldn't wait."

This time Azhar's voice was considerably more upbeat. "Kwell, everything's going to be fine. We just have to hang on. There's help on the way. Someone is coming to rescue us."

Kwell had remained silent through Azhar's tirade. But at this point, he could no longer hold back. "What are you talking about? What help do you expect to get in this forsaken wilderness? The slaves we were with couldn't have found us. Don't be ridiculous!"

"It's not ridiculous. I heard the voice with my own ears. They sent someone to tell me."

At this disclosure, the boy's eyes widened in disbelief. "Sent someone? Azhar, what are you saying? You must be going mad. No one's been anywhere near us except for the guards."

"All right. Don't believe me then. But when help comes, you'll see."

Azhar closed her mouth abruptly and refused to say anything more. Her own face looked almost as sullen as Kwell's. Vainly she tried to find a comfortable sleeping position, wriggling first to one side and then the other in a futile effort to stop the rope from chaffing against her legs. Her eyes flitted up to the wooden grate as she searched for some sign of the rescuers who were supposed to be coming soon.

Azhar looked once and then twice, scarcely believing what she was seeing: two eyes, dark and intent were staring down at them. "Kwell, look. The grate!" she announced with a flourish. She was sure those dark somber eyes definitely did not belong to the men who guarded the pit. "Kwell, maybe they're here," Azhar whispered triumphantly. "Maybe our help has come."

Already half asleep, Kwell could barely understand what Azhar was saying. From the few words that he heard, it seemed that the girl was still going on about help being on the way. Extremely tired and deeply concerned about getting enough rest to regain his strength, Azhar grumbled out a protest. "Maybe you're dreaming. For goodness' sake, can't you do it quietly?"

Azhar snapped her mouth shut, drew her knees up to her chest, and huddled helplessly against the wall of the pit, wishing that she could disappear. Still, when she inched her head back and peered up towards the grate, the eyes were still there, staring back at her.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur dragged a fine fat horse away from the slaver’s camp. At first, the beast resisted vehemently, kicking and snorting angrily, eyes wild with fear. Ishkur wondered if the dumb animal knew the grim fate that awaited him after they’d reached the rest of the orcs. This plump one would make a delicious meal for the whole party. Eyeing the left hindquarters longingly, Ishkur reserved this piece secretly for himself and resolved to kill anyone who tried to take it from him. He was the one who stole the beast, so he deserved the best portion of meat. No orc would take his portion, especially not the Uruk Makdush, who could not be bothered to steal any animals himself.

He heard loud shouting followed by the heavy thud of footsteps heading in his direction. Ishkur forcefully pushed the pony into a thick patch of bushes and ducked behind it. He placed.his left hand securely over the horse’s muzzle to stifle noises. With his right he positioned his scimitar next to the beast’s throat in case the creature started to make any noises. If the beast became a distraction, he would be forced to slaughter it and drag the carcass back to camp. Ishkur could not risk being discovered and taken prisoner or even worse. From behind the bush, he peered out and saw several dogs that apparently belonged to the slavers. They were sniffing around trying to find something.

Hearing the dog’s frantic yips, the Mannish leader grunted, “One of those horses must be around here somewhere. The dogs can smell it. Come on you idiots, step it up. Whoever took it will feel great pain.”

Three of the men wandered perilously close to Ishkur’s hiding place. Ishkur tightened his grip on his scimitar as the group approached. His heart dropped and he remained perfectly still, making sure that neither he nor his companion made any noise. The leader stood almost on top of him and stopped for a second, so close that Ishkur considered thrusting his scimitar into the man’s stomach, but then thought better of it. In addition to these two, others were probably coming. With a final cry of frustration, the leader turned back and wandered over to search the next grove of trees, looking extremely disappointed and puzzled. Ishkur could now hear more footsteps and loud voices echoing from the slaver’s camp. He had escaped detection barely once, and Ishkur did not wish to try his luck again. He rose quickly and, still yanking the horse forward, ran without stopping until he reached camp.

Inside the rocky encampment, a space partially enclosed by large boulders, he finally began to relax a little, but not before he had told everyone what he had seen.

“I have important news,” Ishkur howled, “The slavers have discovered their animals missing. I ran into some men with dogs. They did not see me. From now on we must all be careful and avoid being seen at all cost. Now, let us eat and bury the bones of the horse deep in the dirt to hide them.”

Ishkur slaughtered the horse and took the left hindquarters for himself. Many of the male orcs came over and helped themselves to meat. Then he carved out a generous portion of rump meat for the two female sisters whom he thought were called Mazhg and Zagra. He rarely thought much about the women but they all needed to be able to keep up on the march.

“Here,” he grunted, “Take this. You’ll need it to stay strong on the road.”

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Not only was his enjoyment of a delightful supper tainted by the bitterness of worry, so that he hadn’t the heart nor the stomach to volunteer to “clean” the pot, as was his usual habit, but sleep also eluded Carl. And as the others finished readying their gear and settling themselves, the darkness found the hobbit laying beside the embers, staring up at the points of light in the sky, their sparkling net so strangely familiar in this odd land. And yet these same stars wheeled their way over the former slaves and the slavers, the plantations and the Shire. All were to rest now, in the natural order of things, but try as he might to be obedient, Carl just couldn’t seem to manage it.

His evening thoughts did seem to drift always back to those two children whom the slavers had plucked from the others. How utterly frightened they must be, and for good reason. And for the hundredth time, or so it seemed, Carl was filled with a torrent of self-reproach. He should have spoken up. Weary or not, they might have pressed themselves to travel onward, at least until sleep could took them more quickly. Surely the King wouldn’t have delayed so. And the hobbit began to wonder how well Strider actually knew the group, thinking it might have been quite some time since he had last seen some of them. Aiwendil for instance, now there was a puzzle for you! Though Carl had always respected his elders, he knew that there does eventually come a time in the winter of life when even the pillars of wisdom might become a touch unsound, like a great tree that grows a bit hallow on the inside. How could Lindir be so sure of the Aiwendil’s declarations when much of the time the old man seemed more than a little eccentric? Might he not easily take them on a wild goose chase, confusing the sought after bat colony with the sought after slaves?

Shifting under his blanket with the uncomfortable thought, the hobbit’s mind felt like a caged squirrel as he struggled to think of other things. Had he tightly sealed the water skins? Yes, but he must remember to check them again before setting out. And what about Stumps? Would his peg hold? Craning his neck to reassure himself that the pony was still there, Carl saw the dear beast looking quite content among the larger horses. But a slight movement not far away caught the hobbit’s eye, and after a moment’s consideration Carl realized that it was only Lindir, sitting at the far edge of camp, his keen grey eyes keeping watch over them all. And after another moment’s consideration he thought perhaps the elf could calm his misgivings, at least enough to be able to find a bit of sleep. And so wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, the hobbit picked his way across to where Lindir sat, seating himself beside the quiet fellow. He remained silent for a while, trying to think of a good way to broach the subject.

“Nice evening, wouldn’t you say?” he spoke at last. Lindir merely nodded, seeming a bit reluctant to indulge in conversation with the hobbit. But Carl was determined to plumb the level of the elf’s confidence in Aiwendil’s latest ‘discovery’, hoping to find something to ease his own mind. So he proceeded cautiously, not altogether unmindful of the elf’s duty to keep watch, but unusually persistant all the same.