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

[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.

[Undómë]

Zagra and Mazhg


There are no Orcish words or phrases to convey the concept of ‘thanks’. So in answer to Ishkur’s grunted Here, take this. You’ll need it to stay strong on the road. Mazhg took the offered meat and grunted back at him.

Zagra and Ungolt huddled around her as she sliced off big juicy pieces for each of them. The blood ran down her arms, dripping off her elbows as she chewed off bites of the warm, rich, red meat.

‘Good!’ Zagra grinned a bloody smile at her sister and nodded her head enthusiastically. She paused in her eating and looked toward where Ishkur sat, then back at Mazhg. ‘He gave us meat,’ she said - offered more as a prompt than as a passing comment.

‘Well, then,’ Mazhg mumbled around a mouthful of meat. ‘Go on! But not too much…’

Zagra pulled out a few rounds of journey bread, some sticks of dried meat, and one of the tubers she knew were edible without having to be cooked. She crept as quietly as she could behind him and laid them as close by his hip as she dared. He moved a little as he ate, bringing his forearm up to wipe across his mouth. Zagra gasped, and turning quickly, ran back to where her sister sat. She huddled down next to Mazhg, and fixed her eyes on her piece of meat and her bread, pretending for all intents and purposes that he could not see her.

[piosenniel]

‘Any questions? If not, the rest of you should get some sleep.’ Lindir’s voice carried well in the little camp. And his tone of authority, though subtly voiced, impressed itself upon Rôg’s thoughts. It was a good choice of the King’s that such a one should pull the raggle-taggle fellowship together and look after its welfare.

The Elf, he thought to himself, was one of those take-charge sorts. Which was not unusual for an Elf, at least in his opinion. Those he’d encountered in Imladris were certainly no pretty, shrinking violets.....and even the female of the species was known to be quite forward in their opinions of what should, what must, be done. He chuckled quietly to himself recalling the friend of Aiwendil’s with whom he’d become acquainted during their undertaking in Umbar. She’d been quite an unreticent and candid ally; and her blade as he recalled had been as quick and sharp as her tongue.

Aiwendil was off by himself, thinking most likely about some part of the larger plan he had in mind for this group, something beyond the details of riding fast to rescue two children from slavers, the need to meet up with the larger escaping slave group, or even the incursion of the Orcs-as-thieves in the midst of all. They were all little twists of....well, perhaps fate, of circumstance, which he would somehow see to, weaving them like stray threads into the whole of his, or the, tapestry.

Or perhaps he was simply thinking of breakfast, that too was a possibility…..roust Rôg from his bed to make gruel or accept the offer of fruit and waybread. A puzzle, a conundrum wrapped in the guise of a dotty old man. Rôg smiled and fetched out his old leather sack in which were stored the grains his companion was fond of. There was plenty still for a number of breakfasts.

He put away the sack and looked about. For all Lindir’s prompting, most were still awake. And there was the Hobbit, Carl, up and strolling off toward the edge of the camp. Toward the Elf. ‘Hmmm, I wonder what’s on his mind?’ he murmured, watching Carl sit down near Lindir.

His thoughts along these lines were distracted as he noted the sounds coming from the place where the horses were picketed. Comfortable nickering as the beasts settled in together, shufflings of hooves as they jostled for position. Rôg wondered if in the undercurrent of equine intimations his own dun mare was voicing her opinions of him. Was that a nicker or a snicker he heard between the clip-clop of hooves in the dust?

A movement to his left distracted him once again from his thoughts; someone else was up. A great mass of reddish hair, somewhat silver-shot in the pale moonlight, on a head cocked to one side as if listening to something. It was the Dwarf, Vrór. And his attention seemed captured, too, by the horses.

On an impulse, Rôg drew near to where Vrór stood. ‘Master Redfist!’ he called out as he approached. ‘I see you are perusing the choice of steeds.’ He lifted his chin toward the horses. ‘I had heard you might be needing a ride once we leave for the slavers’ camp. If that’s still so, and if no one has offered you one, you would be more than welcome to ride with me. I travel lightly, so there is plenty of room. And you may sit front or to the rear….as you wish.’

He left the offer hanging lightly in the air. Perhaps the Dwarf would prove a stronger hand for the dun mare; perhaps she would look on Vrór more favorably than she did on him….ignoring him altogether….that would be nice…..quite nice…..

[Child of the 7th Age]

“A nice evening perhaps, but I’ll feel more comfortable once we actually arrive at the slavers’ camp.”

The Elf said nothing further to Carl, but stared pointedly at the northern horizon. Whether he was searching for intruders or mulling over what might happen the next morning was not immediately apparent. Hoping to continue their conversation, Carl began speaking in a stouthearted manner concealing the very real worry that lay underneath his words. “I agree. We need to find those children quickly. But what amazing luck that Aiwendil already knows the location of both camps! I mean…it would make no sense to go galloping out if we didn’t know where we’re going.

The hobbit’s comments met with silence. In the distance, a coyote howled, one of the few animals they’d seen or heard since venturing across the border into Mordor. The howl sent an eerie chill down Carl's spine. When he spoke to the Elf a second time, his voice sounded more uncertain. “Lindir….does Aiwendil really know where those camps are? I suppose the birds could have come and told him. That’s what he said before.”

This time, Lindir promptly answered, “Yes, he really does know. I am convinced of it. But he is not telling me where he got this information. And since he has been in Arda even longer than I have, I am not about to ask.”

Carl’s response was immediate, one word tumbling out after the other, “But how can that be? You’ve told us tales of the First Age and the wars in Beleriand, stories like the ones from Master Bilbo’s book. You mean that Aiwendil is older than that?” ”

Lindir nodded and went on to explain, “It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it? That a dotty old fellow should have been tramping about for who knows how long…. Still, it is true. I've known Aiwendil more than a thousand years, and his tales have convinced me his roots lie much further back than that. ”

Noticing the uncertainty still in Carl's eyes, Lindir searched for words that would give the hobbit the reassurance he needed. “I am sure you know that Gandalf was a great friend of hobbits. He had a very high opinion of them and spent considerable time in the Shire. You've heard stories, or prehaps even met him when you were younger. But you might be surprised to learn that Gandalf and Aiwendil were friends. Gandalf trusted Aiwendil and sometimes called upon him for help in tight situations. Indeed, if you examined the lineage of those two old birds, you’d find they come from similar stock ….almost like brothers. And it's likely they share other gifts as well, though I am not the one to ask about that.”

His eyes bright with amusement, the Elf noted, "Weren't you the one who shared with me that famous hobbit adage? Don’t judge a book by its cover or a ploughshare by its handle. That is what you must do with Aiwendil. There is more to him than meets the eye. But hadn’t you better settle in? Tomorrow will be a long day. Good night for now. Plus, I need to check and make sure everything is quiet.”

Without waiting for an answer, Lindir trotted to the outskirts of camp and stared out across the plain to make sure there were no unwelcome intruders, all the while thinking about everything that had happened during the day. The Elf was not easily impressed by one of the Secondborn. He had lived too long and seen too much folly. But he could not help but be impressed by Carl. Despite long years spent in Arda, the Elf had never even met a hobbit until he’d gone off on this trek. Like most of those living in Rivendell, Lindir had heard tales of Carl's kinsman Samwise who'd accompanied Frodo Baggins during the War of the Ring, but these were only tales, not the same as getting to know a living and breathing person.

Lindir was beginning to understand why Gandalf had been so intrigued with hobbits. Of all the members of their band, it was Carl who’d had the good sense to question the information provided to him. He had also been the one to ferret out the entrance to the slaves' hideaway. Without him, they would likely be riding in circles. Perhaps, just like Aiwendil himself, these curious small folk had more inside than was readily apparent. He promised that one evening he would draw Carl out and get him to share stories about his kin. For now, however, Lindir was content merely to have discovered that there were people in Middle-earth who still had the ability to surprise him.

That still did not solve his other problem. If only he could get Rôg to open up and share more about himself. Aiwendil was obviously not going to reveal anything more about his friend, despite his cryptic comments referring to their joint adventure in Harad. Yet not for one instant did the Elf believe that Rôg had gone off to survey a bat colony this evening. No reasonable man went off on his own after dark crossing the dreaded Ash Plains of Mordor for such a trivial reason. It was simply too dangerous, especially for Rôg who looked and acted nothing like a soldier.

For all his defense of the wizard, Lindir recognized that Aiwendil had one major weaknesses. He was not the best judge of men. What if the old fellow had been taken in by someone posing as a friend though with far darker motives? Lindir glanced back to where Rôg was supposed to be sleeping and saw a suspiciously empty bedroll. Couldn't that fellow ever stay where he was supposed to? Perhaps he was out again with the bats.

Elessar had called their group "The Fellowship of the Fourth Age", but there were parts of that tale Lindir did not want to see repeated. The first fellowship had included one member who, certain that he knew a better way, had secretly tried to sabotage the group's efforts. Giving one last hasty glance at the empty bedroll, Lindir promised to speak with Rôg tomorrow about being careful not to wander so far from camp without at least letting him know first. In the next few days he intended to keep an eye on him.

[Novnarwen]

Aedhild

When Aedhild finally gained consciousness, she found herself lying in the soft, damp grass. Sitting up, her legs curled up to support her body, she rested her head in her hands. "Not now. Not for everyone to see," she muttered under her breath. She knew this feeling, this feeling of weakness and vulnerability; it was within every inch of her body and much to Aedhild's distress, she had come to realise that it would never fully go away. Touching her forehead, she felt the warm stream of blood. Disgusted, she ripped a patch of grass and scrubbed her forehead clean. It wasn't much, but she shuddered all the same.

The hurriedly aging woman didn't know how many times she had fallen to the ground, supposedly without reason, and awakened from unconsciousness to find her body aching from the fall, her head penetrated with intense pain and her memory blurry. Countless of times, she had found herself alone in the dark, shivering, afraid that another fit would seize her without warning, this time more ferociously. Having escaped from slavery, she had wandered in a land, unknown to her and alone in he wilderness, a fit could be the end of her. For six weeks, she had hardly slept a full night, and during day, she had not risked walking for many hours, knowing that exhaustion made the fits occur more regularly. For weeks and weeks, she had only looked for a safe shelter that would protect her from the consequences of a potential fit would have. Though much indicated that Aedhild was hardly present, or at least not very attentive to the things surrounding her, she was very well aware of the fits that occasionally took her by surprise, and the danger of the occurring.

It scared her. More than anything. Even the fight of being punished by the plantation guards didn't scare her as much. Over time, she had become used to it. She wasn't familiar with another reality, a reality of freedom and being your own master, and thus she had learnt to accept it. This illness or plague however that seemed to have taken possession of her so long ago didn't seem to seize, and despite the long period of time of which they had defined much of her life, she could never get used to them. Each time, she stirred, rose and shivered like and old hag, anxiety grasping her so intensely she could barely breathe. The thought of being alone again, entirely on her own was unbearable. She would never make it; during the weeks after her escape, she had been lucky, lucky for the first and last time in her life.

She couldn't count on it again. She couldn't count on the abilities she didn't have. In truth, Aedhild's independency was more dangerous to her than being under someone else's command.

“Is something wrong?”

Aedhild didn’t realise that a cry had escaped her lips, and that silent wailing followed. She would never make it. This was a battle for survival, and she would never win. In due time, the others, the young and healthy slave escapees would leave her, leave her to die alone.

“You’re bleeding!”

Casting a glance at Raegonn, she couldn’t help hating him for being the young and vibrant man he was. He was one of them, who were conspiring against her to leave her rotting in this dark land.