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

[Novnarwen]

Eirnar

I’m not his puppy, Eirnar thought angrily. He wanted to run after Khamir, beat some sense into him and finally cut his throat if he dared come with any suggestions again. It wasn’t fair, nor right; not even half of the remaining ex-slaves had weapons, and those who had, could hardly fight. Either they were youngsters, too hot-headed and eager to be beneficial in a fight, but most importantly too inexperienced - or they were men like him, too tired to fight, even for freedom.

He shook his head violently, stomping around in circles. "Guard the camp," he mimicked. Did Khamir not feel slightly responsible for dragging them out here into nowhere and nothingness in the first place, and now, all of a sudden, he was leaving them? How could he demand anything of them, he who was getting cold feet and running away, before whoever had attacked them came back? If they came, no one could save them. He was escaping from a responsibility they all shared, taking care of the old, Aedhild and those too weak to do much, but for an instant of a moment, Eirnar thought rightfully so; when the others eventually would open their eye, awake from their reverie and see what really was going on, Khamir would be ripped into pieces and stomped into dust.

He wanted to shout. Not even at the plantation, staring up at the giggling Orcs as he lay on the hard, cold floor, hands and feet tied, waiting for that final blow that would knock him senseless had he felt more imprisoned. Never had he even considered comparing the two lives, slavery and freedom, but at that moment he could hardly distinguish between the two. Trapped between staying, what was right, and leaving to pursue ones ego, he did not even attempt to hide his frustration.

“Let him go, that fool of a Southron” Aedhild shot in, on the verge of tears. “Do you think he will… bring them..t-t-o us?”

Slightly surprised by what seemed like logic reasoning for once, he stared at her, unable to utter a word. He too had considered it; given Khamir’s background, Eirnar was being rightfully suspicious, but he dared not second her suspicions at this point, not even when seeing Khamir about to wander off.

“Will he come back?” she asked silently, almost whispering, as if afraid someone else would hear here.

“Who knows whether the cursed Southron will come back… For his sake, I hope not,” pausing, he cast a glance at the curled up figure of the woman, hugging her knees tightly, rocking back and forth. “And who knows what will become of us,” he muttered.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Imak pounded his fist on the table in frustration as he listened to the men who were standing inside his tent. Things were even worse than he had anticipated: two men killed while chasing the miscreants onto the plains, several others injured after trying to stop the escape of the prisoners or in rounding up their horses. While a number of the animals had been herded back into camp, more than ten were still missing and would have to be chased down and retrieved by light of day.

Out of everything that had happened since nightfall, Imak could find just one reason to be hopeful. The man sent to spy on the slave camp earlier that evening had returned with good news. From the look of things, the slaves would not be moving on the next morning. They had packed northing for their outward journey. Such a large group could not vacate their camp without some advance preparation. The scout had seen the men holding a meeting but could not get close enough to hear what they were saying. Still, it was clear that the slaves were not heading north anytime soon.

On hearing this single piece of good news, Imak assured the men, "We have time then---time to prepare and sweep down on them tomorrow night. Go to bed. Leave the rest for the morning. Let the fools rejoice in the return of their prisoners. After nightfall we attack the camp. Perhaps we'll drag a few of the strongest off in chains and slay the rest -- every last one of them. They will be sorry they ever tangled with me."

"But Imak....there are profits to be made."

"Profits? Heh! I have had my fill of these fools. They are more trouble than they are worth. As much as I love the jingle of gold, it cannot match my desire to see their heads stacked up in a pile. Go then. Tomorrow we repay the slaves for their little visit."

As the men turned to leave, Imak kicked off his boots and lay down to rest.

[Folwren]

Athwen walked quietly from one horse to the next as the long silence continued, only broken by the distant noises of the slavers’ disrupted camp. No new excitement had startled them and they remained calm and quiet. Athwen felt grateful for that.

After a while, she went and checked her stores of herbs and bandages and other such things for the hundredth time, it seemed. Would they never come? Her hands flitted aimlessly over the contents of the two bags while in her mind she named everything there.

Her mental list was interrupted by the sound of approaching feet. She stood up quickly and ran forward a few steps before stopping. Out of the darkness, three figures could be seen drawing closer. The old, bent figure of Aiwendil with a girl beside him, and several yards back, Rôg followed. Before they reached her, Rôg hurried forward and caught up with the first two and said something quietly in the girl’s ear. She stopped and turned towards him. Aiwendil turned his head, but after a moment, he left them and came forward to Athwen.

“There was only one child?” Athwen asked. Her face showed concern as she looked up at Aiwendil. He shook his head, to her relief and turned to lead her to Rôg and the girl.

“No. There is a boy, but he stayed back with Lindir and the others. This girl is not well, that is why we brought her back. Her name is Azhar,” he added, quietly. Athwen nodded as they stopped near Rôg and Azhar.

Athwen reached out her hand and took Azhar’s hand gently. The girl turned to look at her. Athwen flashed her a very brief smile, while at the same time, her face became far more serious with concern.

“Azhar,” she said, as her second hand lifted to feel her forehead and cheek, “I’m Athwen. You’ve probably been told, but we’ve come to help you.” The hand slipped down to her throat below the jaw and she quietly felt Azhar’s pulse for a moment. “Can you walk a little way farther?” she asked, looking Azhar directly in the eye again. The girl nodded and Athwen smiled once more. She straightened and passed a protective and supporting arm around Azhar’s shoulders and began to lead her towards the horses and the packs and stores.

“Aiwendil,” she said, turning to her left where the old man walked by her side. “She’s got a bad fever. How long until the others get back? Can we leave quickly? I can give her very little now, but once we stop, if we can, we should make a fire to prepare tea and some sort of soup, if we possibly can.

“I hope that they are not too long in coming, but it depends on what the slavers do.”

Athwen nodded her head and turned back to Azhar. “Sit down here.” Azhar obeyed without question and sank wearily to the ground. Athwen undid the clasp of her cloak and she pulled it off and put it around Azhar’s shoulders. Then she quickly reached over for one of the flasks of water and handed it to the girl. “Drink as much as you can,” she ordered gently. With one hand holding the cloak and the other holding the flask up to her mouth, Azhar complied.

As Azhar took small sips of the water, Athwen saw from the corner of her eye a rider come into camp, leading two horses behind him. She glanced up briefly and as Aiwendil walked forward to meet him, recognized Dorran. She smiled to herself with a new sense relief and turned her attention back to Azhar.

The girl had finished and when Athwen looked back to her, she held out the water, having drunk as much as she could. Athwen took it, and noticed the girl’s hand trembling as she relieved it of its burden.

“Lie down, now Azhar, and try to sleep,” Athwen said in a soft, low voice.

“Aren’t we going to be leaving?” Azhar asked, in a whisper, as she began to lie down slowly. Athwen nodded as she tried to make Azhar comfortable.

“Yes, but not yet. When we go, we’ll take you with us. You need to rest as much as possible.” She smiled as encouragingly as she could as she brushed the black hair away from Azhar’s face before she stood up and turned away. “Now, you, Rôg,” she said, walking forward to the man who stood waiting her attention. “You were hurt?”

Rôg told Athwen what had happened and how the arrow had hit him. Athwen laid her hand on the materiel of his tunic. She could see where the blood had seeped through and feeling the half hardness of it, could guess what had happened. She looked up at Rôg. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to pull this away and it’s going to hurt.” He nodded and Athwen saw his jaw clench tightly before she looked back down. “We’ll get some water on it, first, and perhaps soften it back up,” she said, changing her mind suddenly.

Quietly, then, she worked with Rôg’s wound. She softened it, and pulled the tunic away. Rôg removed the entire tunic for her and she cleaned and dressed the cut. She left it unbandaged while she looked at his shoulder. Having verified that nothing was broken there, she told him that it was badly bruised, but would heal on its own, and advised him not to use it.

[Tevildo]

Dorran had intended to ride hard and join up with Aiwendil before the group managed to cross the plain. To his disappointment, the sharp pain in his side made it difficult to go any faster than a rambling walk. He inched slowly westward, stopping just once to collect two horses quietly grazing on a patch of nettles and chicory that had grown up beside a small grey pool. One was his own mount "Orc Slayer", whom he was heartily relieved to see, while the other had belonged to the second dead slaver. He glimpsed three mares still running free on the plain. A half mile further and he could make out the outline of the grassy knoll where they had agreed to meet.

Though still trying to mask his pain, Dorran felt bone weary; every breath came with difficulty and was accompanied by a racking pain in his side. Wading through to the other side of the scrub brush, he awkwardly slid off Shae's horse and handed the three pair of reins to Aiwendil. He gave the older man a hint of a smile and briefly described what had happened to him and his pursuers. Coming to the end of the story, he added, "I was rescued by Shae who's one of the slaves. You'll be hard pressed to find a braver woman. If they are all like that, our job will be easy. She insisted on staying with Lindir to fight, but lent me her horse, I'd be grateful if you could give him a rub down and let him feed as I need to get off my feet for a while. And, yes, one other encouraging piece of news. In addition to these two, I saw several others on the loose. You and Rôg did a better job than you know. We have them running in circles all night. They may send out a small band to follow us, but they'll have to wait for morning to get the rest of their mounts back. For tonight, at least, I don't see how they could attack as a group."

"Good new indeed!" responded Aiwendil. Then, the two spoke quietly for some time until the wizard urged Dorran to go and have his side and gash attended. "I'm fine. It can wait," the young man insisted. "Others are hurting worse than I. That's why I waited. I wanted to let Athwen do her work. But I'll go now and say a word to my wife so she shouldn't be worrying where I am."

Continuing to the far side of the knoll, he could see Athwen speaking to a young girl, while Rôg waited patiently in the background. With some difficulty Dorran lowered his body and sat cross legged on the ground. He would wait quietly here until his wife finished with her other patients.

[Regin Hardhammer]

"So do you want to see an Elf, or not? I don't think you believe me. If we run into any trouble, we can both mount up on my horse and get out of here fast." There was a teasing note in Ishkur's voice, although he did not sound unfriendly.

"I should know better than this! But go ahead. Lead the way. If you're telling me a story, you will be sorry for it." Gwerr added, "I don't know whether to believe you or not. What's an Elf doing in Mordor?"

Ishkur shrugged his shoulders since he also had no idea what the Elf was doing in the slavers' camp. "I don't know. Maybe he's a friend of the slaves. That's what I thought."

Iskkur waved his hand at Gwerr to indicate that he should follow. Both orcs went on foot along the far western edge of camp and kept their distance away from any of the men. Ishkur led his horse behind him.

"We'd better not get too close," Ishkur warned his friend. There's a few of them down there, not elves but others. Probably all from the slaves' camp. The last thing we want to do is to draw attention to ourselves."

They found a pile of rocks where they could hide and sat down on the ground not too far from the stream bank. Gwerr peered out from behind the boulder straining his eyes to see. "There's nothing there, Ishkur. Nothing at all."

"Wait. Just wait. They were there a little while before, and I don't think they've left."

Gwerr leaned out even further and suddenly noticed several people who had just climbed up to the top of the stream bank. Several of them were short, but in the middle stood a tall distinctive figure. Gwerr stared and stared again and then whistled under his breath. "You're right, Ishkur. The tall one, he's an elf." Gwerr's fingers instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword. The elf was so close they could even see his eyes.

"Tempting, isn't he? A nice clean target." Ishkur chuckled. Then he added, "It's been a long time."

"A long time for what?" Gwerr demanded.

"Oh, nothing. I guess it's been a long time since I've hunted elf." Ishkur growled, "This one gives me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. He's just like all the rest. Thinks they rule the world. Theyjust stare down their noses at everyone. Bah! What do the likes of you and me have to do with an Elf? But we can't risk attacking him. The whole camp will be on our necks. And I want to be around tomorrow night when the slavers clear out . There's two kegs of beer, I hear, and even one of honey mead."

"Alright, Ishkur. You've had your fun. Let's get out of here and back to camp. Then we can talk about tomorrow's raid. I'm all in if the slavers really do clear out."

"They will. For sure they will."

With that the two orcs turned south and headed back to the relative safety of the orc camp.

[Firefoot]

The lights and bangs had long since subsided, but Grask had not yet moved from his spot. Men had still been running around all over the place, trying to round up their runaway beasts, no doubt, or find the cause of the commotion. But now even they seemed to have settled down, and Grask was ready to venture closer to their camp once more.

He went as quietly as he could, but even that measure seemed largely unnecessary as he encountered no men until he was within sight of the camp. Crouched in the tussocks, he observed the camp; his eyes were irresistibly drawn towards the pit that held the man-children. To his shock, no guards stood near it, and the grate over the top had been removed. That must mean that they were no longer held captive there; had they been moved? Killed? He remembered the children speaking of rescue, but to Grask this still seemed as inconceivable as it had then. Only escape would be a more impossible option.

So what had happened to them, then? Grask did not see any place in the camp that seemed to have especial guard except for near the horses, and the man-children would surely not be held there. Could they really be dead, then?

Grask felt a tickling of sorrow at this, a feeling as frightening as it was unfamiliar. Orcs did not feel grief like that! Well, the women might, but Grask wasn’t a woman, and, at least in his own eyes, he wasn’t a child anymore, either, not with his two fine knives belted at his waist. Nevertheless, the peculiar sorrow remained, and Grask did not know what to do with it. Ignore it, he supposed; what had the children been to him, anyway? An insight into the strangeness of Men? He had no real link to them; they should be as nothing to him.

Why then did Grask feel so hollow like this, as if he had suddenly missed a newfound feeling of kinship?

[Folwren]

When Athwen finished with Rog and checked Azhar to see if she had fallen asleep yet, she quietly walked to Dorran. He sat cross legged, with his head down and his arms folded at his waist. Athwen knelt in front of him and touched his face gently. He looked up, half startled.

“How did you fair, my brave man?” she asked in a soft, tender voice. Her fingers trailed his cheek and jaw line and she tilted his chin a little more so that his face looked straight into hers. A shadow of concern fell over her face. “Are you hurt?”

Dorran pulled away and stared at the ground attempting to avoid his wife’s eyes. He had thought of saying nothing about what had happened. Athwen would have greater problems to deal with once they had gotten to the slave camp. The last thing he wanted was for her to waste precious time and energy worrying about his injuries or dwelling on the attackers. Almost as quickly, he changed his mind. Too often, he reflected, those things you don’t know carry more fear than the simple, unvarnished truth. The best thing he could do was to spell out what had happened. He was too experienced a Rider, and Athwen had seen too much to pretend anything else.

He spoke without hesitation. “I’ll live. A couple of bumps and bruises, a gash on the head. Those aren’t bad. Unfortunately, I broke my rib. Every time I breathe, there’s pain in my side.” This time he met Athwen’s eyes, a hint of a smile playing on his face, “I know, I know. I couldn’t have done it at a better time! Tomorrow we’ll need every able bodied man to fight, and here I sit.”

Athwen frowned a little and quietly ordered him to remove his belt and his weapons so that she could get to it. He obeyed slowly and stiffly. “Never mind,” she murmured and finished it for him. She pulled away the sword belt and laid it to the side. Her hand felt his side to see if she could detect this broken rib.

“Yes, my sweet, I can already here what you're going to say next,” Dorran commented, nodding. “No fighting or strenuous labor till we’re sure the bone is healing. I’m enough of a soldier to realize I can’t wriggle out of a healer’s orders. . .especially when that healer is my wife.”

He paused before responding to her other question, the one she had not yet spoken out loud. “I was fortunate. Fortunate, indeed. Three of the slavers approached Lindir and I on horseback, ready to give hue and cry to rouse the entire camp. I led two of them on a merry chase. As luck would have it, one was thrown when his horse stepped in a rabbit hole.”

Athwen stood up and offered her hand. “Stand up, I can’t bandage it with you sitting there.” He stood up slowly, putting as little pressure as he could afford on Athwen as he did so, but all the same, she took a stumbling step forward as he heaved upwards. Athwen gently helped him remove the shirt. “Then what happened?” she asked, knowing it was better to keep a patient talking.

“I dealt with the other one,” he went on. “And there I lay like a sack of turnips in our cellar till one of the slaves came riding by and brought me back. Now you know the truth. Rather than helping slaves escape, I am already in their debt. But that’s not important. The others did their job, and the children have been rescued. And even if I can not fight tomorrow, I can still think and plan. That has to be worth something.”

He picked up her hand, cradling it gently in his. “I fear this will get worse before it gets better. Who knows what lies out there?” His gaze strayed reluctantly to the north. “I know this can’t be easy for you. But I wouldn’t have come alone, not at this point in our lives. Still, I feel this is something I'm meant to do. I don’t know how to say this, but thank you for agreeing to come, for being here and tending to me and to so many others. I only hope that someday we can look back on this and laugh. Now, if you have any magic tricks in that bag of yours, which will take away some of this pain, I would be much obliged.”

Athwen smiled and stepped close to him. She put her arms about his neck, lifting her face upwards as high as she could. “I can find something, but try this first.” He bent his head to let his lips meet hers and they kissed. Athwen backed away and let go. “I’m glad you made it out alive, Dorran,” she said. “You were lucky, as you said. I’ll see what I can do. There’s not much that can be done for a broken rib, though. I wish you’d been more careful. I can’t give you anything for the pain until we can make some tea. I need to make some for Azhar, so you’re in luck, but we can’t make any until we have a fire, and we can’t make a fire until we get out of here.”

She led him over to the healing packs as she spoke and set to work binding up his ribs. When that was finished, she cleaned the slight cut in his scalp.

“There, you’re done. Now, understand, there’s to be no fighting or strenuous work until that bone’s well on it’s way to being healed.”

Dorran began to chuckle, but the effort was cut short, ending in a short gasp. Athwen shook her head as she wound up the remaining bandage and put it away.

“No laughing, either.”