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

[Folwren]

Athwen stood in the warm darkness by herself. She felt cold, though, despite the warmth of the night. She paced back and forth before the picketed horses, looking in the direction of camp. The minutes seemed to pass like hours and the silence felt overbearing, save where one of the horse’s moved, and then the motion sounded overly loud and grated on her ears.

“Waiting is agonizing,” she said aloud, stopping and turning to face fully in the direction of camp. Her hands clasped behind her tightly, clenched hard like the knot in her stomach. “I rather wish I could have gone and been part of it all.”

Before the thought had fully left her mind and mouth, Aiwendil’s light filled the sky and the blast of its thunder reported in the stone hills on all sides. Athwen blinked half blinded eyes, but she had less than a fraction of a moment to consider her own surprise when she turned towards the horses. Two horses, tied just beside each other, reared and plunged, pulling at their lines.

Athwen darted forward. “Oh, hush – hush!” she cried softly. She reached the most terrified one, carefully avoiding the taught line and his front hooves. “Quietly, now! It’s alright.” She reached up as high as her short stature allowed her, attempting with all her might to reach the horse’s head. He brought it down suddenly without her touching him, he stepped forward a step and then tried to lunge back again. Athwen’s hands caught frantically at his head and pulled it down. “No, no,” she panted, one hand cupping about his mouth. “Don’t say anything. For heaven’s sake, don’t do that.” He jerked back and the fierce neigh broke out. Athwen cringed, but figured the worse was over.

Now chaos seemed to reign the camp. She could see torches moving about, and hear men’s voices, shouting and confused, and at the same time, the sound of some other horses, loud and shrill, full of some sort of fear and terror. Athwen’s hands, held firmly about the horse’s head trembled and her throat felt dry.

The fear of the slavers’ horses could be sensed by the five horses and pony here. Athwen felt the movement more than she saw it. Some of the horses merely stood in rigid silence, their heads held high and their ears forward. But the others pranced and walked about as far as their picket lines would allow. Athwen’s heart beat strong as she looked from one dark shape to the next. If they got very frightened and attempt to bolt, they would most certainly be able to do so. She turned her attention to the horse at hand. Her small palms ran swiftly over his face and head, calming and relaxing him as she coaxed him to lower his head until his neck ran level with his body. Then she quickly left him and went to the next, more frantic horse.

As she worked on this one, she knew she could not spend this much attention to each horse – not if the tension and excitement got any more exciting or tense. Her mind raced as she spoke gently and soothed this horse to quietness, and she finally thought of the store of oats. Only to be used on special occasions for the horses, they were. Now was certainly one of those times, she thought. She ran from her last patient to one of the bags and picked it up. Quickly, she ran with it towards the horses. Their fear was slowly calming, but as she came near and offered them handfuls of the oats, their attention shifted to her.

In a short matter of time, they were busy sniffing and nuzzling the ground to the get the last of the oats. Athwen watched them with anxious eyes, hoping that nothing more would happen to startle them, at least until she had someone to help her. . .

[piosenniel]

Had it not been for the faint skittering of pebbles to his left, Rôg would never have glance up toward the source of the sound. And the moon, of course, cooperated in its own way, a skiff of wind parting what few thin, hazy clouds there were to let the pearly light come through. He looked up, a surprised look taking hold of his features.

And just as astonished were the dark eyes that peered down at him.

He’d only a quick look. A young boy, he thought. Or a girl, perhaps . . . the tail of some bright, thin scarf flashed for a brief moment in the pale light as the figure stood to turn and as soon was gone, disappearing behind the low hillock.

Rôg held his breath, listening hard for any sounds that the figure in the dark might be creeping near to do who-knows-what sort of injury to him. He’d had enough of that, already this night . . . the hurting that is; the feathered shaft had flown too swiftly and too true. Hearing nothing, he fled quickly back toward where his companions were.

~*~

From a distance, he could see the figures of the Elf and the young man, Dorran. Their weapons were in their hands and they fought with determination against three of the slavers. Skilled as the two of them were, and what with Lindir being an Elf and all – still three mounted warriors against two on foot laid the advantage to the slavers. Rôg had no sword, and even his walking stick and knife had been left behind with his horse.

Improvise! he hissed to himself.

He bent over quickly and picked up a number of fist sized rocks. Gripping one with his first two fingers close together on one side of it and opposite where he’d placed his thumb, Rôg leaned back that side of his torso and drew back his arm, whipping it forward, then, in a quick smooth motion. His eye was on the horse nearest him, and specifically on the large target of the beast’s hindquarter. He released the jagged missile just as his hand cleared his ear; and it closed the distance quickly between him and the horse’s rear end.

As the rock hit hard against the unprotected flesh, the horse bucked and reared, sending the rider tumbling to the ground . .

[Tevildo]

The noise of the explosion so unnerved the guards that they pulled back and glanced nervously at each other as if they were unsure whether to remain and fight or to ride hard towards the animal pens where loud shouts and scuffling could already be heard. Quickly deciding that they had best fend off the intruders who were undoubtedly here for no good purpse, the three men had turned almost at once to attack Lindir and Dorran.

Despite his skill as a swordsman, Lindir found himself steadily losing ground, being pressed back along the muddy bank of the river towards the mouth of the tunnel. These men, whoever they were, were exceedingly good fighters. Uncertain how long he could keep up with his two mounted attackers, the Elf was relieved to see one of the horses buck and send his rider sprawling in the mud. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the wound on the horse's rear flank that had been inflicted by the stone as well as the lanky figure of Rôg lurking quietly in the background. Grateful to the man but sensing that this opportunity must not be lost, Lindir had whirled about again and singled out one of the sentries, pressing forward with his blade extended and leading him away from the tunnel. Elf and man now stood locked in harsh combat, their swords glinting bright under the dark night sky.

As luck would have it, Dorran now found himself facing two opponents at once. He parried and thrust expertly with his sword, but could not shake off either of the men. His first thought, like that of Lindir, was to get as far away from the mouth of the tunnel as possible. This was the spot where their companions would soon be emerging, hopefully bringing the prisoners along with them. Better to lead the slavers back along the stream and keep them busy so that they would not even notice what was going on near the mouth of the tunnel. Plus, by keeping them occupied, neither of the men could go back and tell their leader about the little incursion on the other side of camp.

The one thing a rider of Rohan knows is horses. Taking advantage of his skill and youthful dexterity, Dorran grabbed a hank of the loose mare's mane in his fist and threw his body over the animal's back, righting himself in the saddle with some difficulty just as she clambered up the muddy bank. Dorran gave a loud "yahoo" and intentionally charged off towards the plain with the other riders following in close pursuit.

Lindir managed to finish off the first guard and hastily glanced around, intending to use his blade to help out his friend, but Dorran was fast disappearing in the distance, and the Elf had no way to get to him. A horse! What I would give for a horse.... But there was no horse in sight. Lindir was on foot; moreover, he knew he must stay by the stream. He owed it to Carl and Vrór and, even more importantly, to the two trapped prisoners to lend a hand when they emerged from the tunnel. The Elf frowned and shook his head. He did not like this situation. He tried to reassure himself that all would be well. Dorran was a Rider of Rohan, an excellent fighter and well armed, and he surely knew how to defend himself. Still, it was with a heavy heart that the Elf turned back to the mouth of the tunnel, hoping that Dorran would come to no ill harm on his wild ride across the ashen plain.

[Child of the 7th Age]

As the camp exploded with noise and confusion, Imak came awake with a start. Pulling on his boots and breeches, he ran out of his tent and huriied down to the section of the camp where all the commotion seemed to be centered. The simple enclosures where the horses and donkeys had been housed were now broken and empty. The makeshift fence had been knocked over and trampled upon by an endless number of stampeding hooves. There were a few animals milling about the logpile but many more could be seen racing out across the plain. Imak tried to grab onto one of the steeds milling nae his tent but the frightened creature reared back, gave the slaver a kick on the thigh, and then took off in the other direction.

Cursing with pain and frustration, Imak shrieked at his men, "Round up the horses still in camp. Then ride out on the plain and herd the others back in. The slaves will pay for what they have done! As soon as you've gotten the animals together, all mount up and meet on the western edge of camp. I'll be waiting for you. We ride out immediately and slice their throats."

Striding back towards his tent, Imak came to a sudden halt, suddenly remembering the slave children and wondering if any of them had been involved in this mischief. For the second time, he cursed and then whirled around, motioning to three of the men to accompany him as they raced over to check on the pit.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl looked at the bedraggled boy in front of him. Truly this was not what the hobbit had envisioned when he had set out, but for some reason he had imagined these children would be similar to those he had seen about Minas Tirith, well tended to. But these poor souls looked forgotten; left to grow up on their own, or not grow up at all, as looked the case here. Carl cleared his throat as his eyes rested on the girl. Clearly she was unwell. She hadn’t moved since he arrived, but for all the world looked a lifeless array of skin and bones tucked away in the corner of this unwholesome pit.

Not finding the words he wanted, and perceiving that the boy didn’t know quite what to make of him, Carl ran his hand through his hair as he thought, pushing his dark and dripping locks off his forehead. His eyes returned to the boy. “My name’s Carl,” he whispered, deciding he would get no where without trying to set the youth at ease. “You’ve never set eyes on a hobbit before have you? Well never mind that. We're not a bad lot, but I suppose you’ll just have to take my word for now. At anyrate, we’ve come to get you both out of here.”

The boy’s gaze narrowed, “We? Who sent you...more hobbits?” he questioned with an incredulous edge to his barely heard words. And why not? Carl thought feeling a touch indignant, but it was very short lived. He soon realized that he must not look a terribly convincing hero with his short stature, and that soaking wet, certainly not an impressive specimen to anyone taught to regard strength as the key measure of value.

“Well, not exactly,” he explained, apologetically. “We’re a mixed bag you see…a dwarf and elf, a lady and few men like yourself…very capable. We were sent to help you and the others who’d escaped, but your group had moved on before we arrived at the caves south of here. Been trailing you ever since.”

Suddenly Carl stiffened, turning his head at the nearby splash and light sputtering he could hear over the hurly burly of the camp above them. But catching sight of Vrór hidden among the shadows, his axe glinting briefly in a sudden burst of light, he relaxed. Shifting his eyes upward to the grate, the hobbit could see fireworks through its bars, and a pale beam of moonlight that fell in a dim circle to the floor. Moving noiselessly toward the relative safety of the shadows, he spoke with the dwarf, and felt his heart sink a notch as he learned that Dorran and Lindir, the guardians of the tunnel, had already been beset.

“Still, I think you are right, we’d best go back the way we came,” he agreed. “But the young Miss is a worry. She hasn’t stirred the least bit, and frankly, I don’t know if she can.”

At the dwarf's suggestion, Carl left Vrór to guard the way in, and swiftly walked toward the figure sprawled on the floor, the boy following him closely all the while. While asking their names, the hobbit knelt brushing the tangle of black curls from the girl’s face. Laying a calloused hand on her gaunt cheek, he frowned. “She’s as warm as a kettle!” he said looking first to Vrór and then to the boy, and wishing he had thought to bring another blanket to carry her in. The boy shifted his weight from foot to foot as he watched over Carl shoulder, whispering their names distractedly. “Azhar! Azhar!” the hobbit said as he tried to wake the feverish child.

“I have done that,” the boy said. “It doesn’t help. She has been that way for hours.”

And how were they to get her though the water! The thought shot through Carl 's mind. She definitely needed Athwen’s ministering, and as soon as possible. “Kwell, I think we are going to need your help getting her out of here. Do you think you are up for it?”