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

[Firefoot]

“You wouldn’t understand,” said Johari roughly. Likely enough, this was at least partially true. Hadith was so naïve, so full of hope; how could he begin to comprehend the crumbling world she lived in? And while he might understand about wanting to find Kalin, Johari did not want to talk about it. She did not want his help or his pity.

“I can try,” said Hadith.

He just didn’t give up on an idea! “Look, it doesn’t matter, all right? Forget I said anything.”

Hadith was looking confused – one of these days his face was going to get stuck like that, Johari thought, and smiled despite herself. He also seemed about to say something more, so Johari cut him off. “If it matters so much to you, I’ll tell you one thing. His name is Kalin. I hope that satisfies you.” Why was she telling him this, anyway? He had no right into her business. “Why do you care so much, anyway? I’ve done nothing but ridicule you, scorn you, even punch you. Don’t you ever take a hint?”

[Durelin]

Khamir

The “Dwarf,” as Khamir had learned the short, flame-haired man was, had been incredibly kind, and the Southron was still surprised by his kind, soft-spoken nature. His respect for the Fellowship had only been increasing since they arrived, and it left him feeling a little lost – though it was a more pleasant feeling than any like it he had ever had. There was little joy for himself, but plenty for others, and that made up for his losses. He was unhappy with his position, mostly because he had no idea what it was.

He was a raging mix of pride and disappointment, happiness and bitterness, strength and fear. The coming battle filled him with excitement, and he still stuck to his belief that they could not lose now, not now that they had spirit and, though he shocked himself to think it, the help of Gondor. They had waited for it for so long, that, now that it had been received, these heroes of the King were more like men out of legends than ever. And there was even an Elf among them! The tall, dark-haired man with strange ears, it was said, was an Elf, thousands and thousands of years old! With such wisdom and experience, they were in good company.

But what place did Khamir have in the coming battle? He had only one arm, he could not draw a bow, he did not have a sword and had not carried one since his youth. The Dwarf, Vrór he was called, only reassured him when he voiced his concerns, but gave no suggestions. His face, even with the majority of it covered with orange hair, appeared a little perplexed. Khamir said nothing, but inwardly thanked him for his kindness. Unable to remain with the Dwarf, obviously a natural warrior if this was the natural appearance and nature of his people, the one-armed man went to find Beloan. Even now, he would seek the man’s counsel.

His friend was leading the group of foot soldiers, and was going over plans for where they would conceal themselves until all the traps had been sprung and the archers had their share of the enemy, and how they would time their attack with regards to the predicted sandstorm. Seeing him busy, and with Joshwan, Khamir decided that now was not the best time to speak with him. His pride just could not handle being looked at as some poor injured creature, beaten down from its former position – for that was surely how many of them saw it, when they had been adverse to his leadership for some time now.

Discovering that Shae was to be a member of a small group of horsemen, he felt particularly alone.

He had to take his place somewhere in the battle, and he supposed that with these other regular “soldiers” as they suddenly called themselves was as good a fit as any. It seemed like another life in which he had drawn back a bowstring, his sights on a black-tailed jackrabbit, a kill to impress his father…

With only three throwing knives, they would not last him long. And however quick he was with his longer hunting knife, it would be nothing against the slavers’ swords and spears. He had always been about survival, and now he found himself feeling almost trapped. Over the past couple months, he had begun to realize that his own survival had been surpassed in importance by that of others. Perhaps now he could resign himself to that.

“Wi…will this knife be enough?” came a hesitant but clear and assured voice from somewhere behind him, whispering under the louder voices of Beloan and Joshwan. He turned to see the boy – or young man – who had been on watch when the slavers first attacked. Adnan. Khamir could picture his face that night, the grief and rage and shame twisting it, and looking at the fifteen year old now, he was certain that it already bore new marks of age. The way Adnan held out the knife he had been granted not too long ago it seemed he had been using it for years.

Khamir smiled, a slight smirk, from pride and compassion rather than from happiness, but his voice was as steady and heavy as ever when he spoke. “Yes, yes it will. But we will have to watch each others’ backs, won’t we?”

[Tevildo]

He had been afraid of this.....afraid of it since the very first moment when Lindir had come up with the idea of sending out a skilled rider to lead the slavers' astray. Part of him had already known that Athwen was the right person for the task and that she would proudly volunteer if given the slightest chance. The problem came down on his shoulders. If he said "yes", his wife would ride and assume the terrible risk of making herself a target for an entire company of armed attackers. He also knew that, if he said "no", his wife would defer her decision and return to the relative sarety of the grove. But what would that do to her spirit, and how would she feel about a husband who put her own safety even above the oath they had jointly taken to Elessar and Eomer and to the completion of the fellowship's quest?

Dorran had lived too long in Rohan to set aside his oath in such a hasty fashion. Both he and his wife had taken on certain obligations when they had agreed to journey to Mordor and help the slaves. Athwen was no child; she had certainly been aware of that obligation just as he was. Who was he to treat her like a child and deny here the chance to do what she had promised to do?

There was a rock hard piece of Dorran's mind that could simply not erase that promise even if it seemed like the easiest thing to do. He turned back to his wife and extended his hand to hers, "I would be lying if I told you that I wanted you to do this thing. It is hard and dangerous, perhaps harder that you realize, since you have never been in a battle before. But we have made a promise to the slaves and to the fellowship itself, and we cannot turn our backs on that. If your heart is set on this, I will not say no. I ask just two things. I will wait till the slavers pass and ride immediately in back of them. I will strip off the insignia of Rohan and dress myself in plain rugged gear such as a common traveler might wear with a hood pulled down over my face. Even if one of the men notices me, he is unlikely to pay attention in the heat of the pursuit. At least that way, if anything happens, I will be right there to help."

"And the second?" Athwen queried her husband.

"The second is that you will promise to be very careful. If anything seems to be going wrong, wave your white sash in the air so that the others who are mounted can ride out to help you." For a long time, the two looked at each other. Then Dorran sighed and went on in a lower voice, "There need be no words between us. Just lean over and let me hold you gently for a bit that I may have your agreement."

An instant later and the couple stood in each other's arms, with Dorran whispering some private words in his wife's ear.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr (and Ishkur)

“You never listen to others, now do you?” Gwerr said as Ishkur was making his leave. Ishkur had clearly made up his mind and seemed to be tense. Why am I bothering... I should know this. It’s all going down the drain anyhow.

With these thoughts Gwerr fell down to get some sleep but he never managed to fall in to anything like a deep sleep as he had to check every once in a while whether the Uruks were stil asleep or up to any mischief.

In the end he fell deep down into sleep anyhow. He faintly regained his consciousness hearing someone roaring enthusiastically but was truly awaken by a kick to his ribs.

"They're gone! The slavers have left. I hope gone for good, but at least for today. The camp is ours whenever we want it. And look what I have brought back."

Ishkur seemed excited – and soon Gwerr saw the reason for it. A berrell of ale was more than welcome news indeed.

"We'll go back once the sun sets and it gets more comfortable, but why not start with a little nip here? It will get us in the right spirit." Ishkur uncorked the small barrell and filled his flagon as he cried out, "Gwerr, Makdush, Mazhg, Grask..... Everyone come here and have a taste."

Gwerr rose up slowly but still was the first to reach Ishkur and his barrell. Ishkur poured his skin full to the top. Gwerr took a draught and then wiped his lips with the back of his right hand. Burping lightly he smiled to Ishkur in a faint fashion and looked around to see the other orcs to awake one by one. Even the Uruks were coming forwards.

“Okay pal, you might not have understood what I said but let’s not let that to come between us. We’ll give all these good draughts of this “flower-ale” you have brought us and then we will go and have a look into the camp, before the others come to think of it... What do you think?”

Ishkur seemed to ponder the thought for a while but then nodded. Together they started to deal rations of ale to the other orcs that were forming something like an odd queue around them. There was some jostling and pushing around but in the end most of the orcs had gotten their share and some had even managed to gain a second helping.

“Okay, time we go? Let’s fill our skins and leave? We’ll take your horse to carry the loot?” Gwerr asked as the queue had vanished and all the other orcs seemed content enough with their ale. The sun was setting, it was late afternoon. It would take an hour at least for the sun to actually set.

“We go”, Ishkur answered and rose up, picking his flagon with him. Gwerr followed him to Ishkur’s new horse and they both threw their half-empty sacks on the horse.

“Do you think your new horse will accept us two?” Gwerr asked. Ishkur hesitated for a while but then nodded. “That’s the easiest way, if you are so good with the horses you claim you are. This one is not the most compliant one”

“We’ll see about it” Gwerr said and took the horse by the reins. “Jump up. I’ll follow!” Ishkur jumped the horse and Gwerr tightened the reins, taking a firm grip from the horses neck. She was not very happy about her load and seemed to sense the next phase in advance. Slowly Gwerr managed to inch himself towards the middle of the horse that seemingly was not at all happy with the things going on. At the secure moment he jumped up on the horse too, gaining a foothold from her side and climbing up to gain balance as she took to her backfeet.

In a moment the horse was on its way, gallopping ahead. It really didn’t seem tom approve the two orcs on her.

“Now stop this!” Ishkur called as he was at the back and had no chance to steer the horse or actually make any difference. Gwerr did his best to bring the horse down in front.

“I’m doing it, I’m doing it! Wait a moment!” Gwerr replied and draw the rains as heavily as he could. With his experience Gwerr managed to bring the horse under his control after a while and in the end the she settled down and the two orcs rode slowly into the empty camp of the slavers.

It was empty indeed.

“Now see here!” Ishkur yelled as he dropped from the horse. “Here is the tent of their leader!” Gwerr jumped down as well, throwing the reins over the horse's head. They both entered the tent that was double the size of the other tents around.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Once the hornets had flown off, the slavers took a while to retrieve their missing horses. Then Imak ordered his men to get back in their saddles and immediately ride to the slave camp. But several of them complained loudly, since they had been badly stung around the eyes.

"You can't do that. It't not smart," confirmed Urlok, one of the oldest in the band who knew a few simple remedies. "Their faces will swell till their eyes shut. They'll be no good for fighting. Either treat the men or leave them here." A few of the others nodded in agreement.

Imak reluctantly agreed to wait until the wounds were treated. Urlok used the flat of his dagger to draw out the stingers and then made a mud paste with water from the leather pouch. He applied the soft mud dressing to their faces, and also found a bit of plantain weed, which he chewed up and spat on each of the bites. By the time he finished, a whole hour had passed, but their faces were not swelling as much.

After they mounted up, Urlok rode his horse over to Imak and said in a low voice. "Captain, the weather looks bad. A hard wind is coming." Imak stared where Urlok was pointing. He could see the wind was blowing harder and that the sky behind their backs looked more brown than blue.

"So what do you expect me to do? Wave a wand and change the weather?"

Urlok answered evenly, "Perhaps we should turn back and wait till the winds blow over. The slaves aren't going anywhere. We can ride out tomorrow morning."

"The bites, the wind. How many excuses can you come up with? You've gotten soft. A few gusts of wind aren't going to stop me. I swear I will not sleep tonight until we defeat those slaves, and I get my sword back." With that, Imak dug his heels into his horse's flanks and took off at a gallop towards the slavers' camp.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir waited until husband and wife had finished their private conversation and then went over to speak briefly with Athwen. He bent down to sketch some rough lines in the dirt, pointing out a few scrub bushes not far from camp where the woman could conceal herself until the slavers arrived as well as indicating the direction she might want to take when approaching the camp. He expressed his thanks and then reminded her that the weather and visibility could possibly be quite bad. Dorran remained nearby, carefully committing the map to memory.

Just as the elf was finishing up, a grey pigeon came circling down. landing on the ground in a wobbly manner directly ahead of them. The bird's feathers were ruffled; her wings noticably drooped. Lindir gently took the bird in his hand and removed a small scrap of parchment wrapped about its leg. The message was written in Quenyan in a remarkably delicate and precise script. Lindir stood off to one side while reading the note and then raised his voice to explain so that any others standing nearby could hear the news. "Aiwendil reports the slavers have been sighted. He and Rôg have drummed up some mischief to delay them. However, my guess is that this pigeon had tough going in the air, since the winds are beginning to blow. The slavers may be no more than thirty minutes away. It is time for each group to move into position. Go now, each of you, and tell the others. Be prepared for the slavers but do not forget the weather. Keep your heads covered and try to shield off the worst of the sand and dirt. And may Varda smile on our endeavor."

Slowly, the men and women started to disperse. Lindir bent down to retrieve his bow and slung it over his shoulder starting towards the appointed place where the archers were to meet. As he glanced eastward, the elf could see one and possibly two figures in the distance, both striding towards the camp. It was definitely Aiwendil and possibly Rôg. At the same time, the winds had picked up. The sand on the plain was swirling about in a number of small funnels and eddies, first blowing one direction and then the other. At this point, the winds and sand were no more than an irritation. But they were likely to get much worse before the night was over. Any work with the bows would have to be done early and from very close in, if there was any hope of their arrows actually hitting the mark. Aiwendil and Rôg had been right about the weather, but whether the slavers would get here first or the giant gusts of wind, he could not even guess.