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

[Folwren]

Kwell stumbled away from Hamin as the man let go of him. Kwell turned, though, as he heard Carl’s voice call after him. “Quick, Kwell, run!” Run? He would have by all means had he not been reminded that the hobbit was still in danger. But the little man’s voice brought him up sharp and he turned in a flash just to see Carl flung off of Hamin’s back onto the dirt and Hamin approach him again with cruel intent written all over his face.

Kwell’s heart leaped to his throat. The little hobbit was going to be killed! He looked frantically about him. Someone had to help! Someone! But who could? Behind Hamin, the other people who had been with Carl were in a hard struggle with the other horsemen. No one had a spare moment to help Carl. No one except Kwell.

The boy realized it in a flash. Thank the gods that the brute was taking his time about slicing Carl’s head off his shoulders. Kwell had his knife in his hand again in an instant. With it drawn, he ran forward. He didn’t consider that Hamin might see him before he struck, or that he might move and catch him and hinder him from taking his purpose to the end. No thought went through his mind except that he had to accomplish what needed to be done. There was no question, no option. He ran mutely forward. Equally silently he leaped up. Hamin looked up, but only too late. He moved his foot from his victim’s stomach, lifted his hand to block his face, but too late.

The knife plunged into his throat and sank to the hilt. Hamin twisted about without a sound, though his mouth opened and blood gushed out of the wound as a mute cry tried to escape. Kwell fell back as Hamin struck out at him with his hands. He stumbled over Carl’s prostrated figure and fell onto his back. In a moment, Hamin fell, too.

Kwell slowly pushed himself up on his elbow and then he sat up. He reached over and tugged on Carl's shirt. "You alright?" he panted. "You're not dead, are you?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Somewhere amid the swirling sands and raucous sounds of battle, the two groups of archers had become separated. Noticing that one of the slavers had made it over the trench and veered off towards the south to avoid capture, Lindir and two of the freed slaves headed down the same path, braving the howling gusts of wind which slowed their progress and prevented them from seeing very far ahead. The horse on which the slaver was mounted had been wounded in the flanks leaving a trail of blood to follow. From the look of the blood soaked ground, the Elf guessed that the rider would not be able to get very far before the animal’s wounds would require him to dismount and go ahead on foot. That would make it considerably easier for the archers to catch up.

Lindir’s guess had been right. Moving as quickly and quietly as they could, the three had stumbled upon the man’s horse floundering on the plain no more than two hundred paces away from the tunnel. Still, there was something that bothered Lindir. Why would this attacker continue to plunge south with such certainty? Either he was deserting the fight or expected to find something that would help him.

The answer was not long in coming. Before they’d advanced another two hundred feet, they came to a stretch of terrain littered with giant boulders. Even with the howling of the storm, Lindir could make out mannish voices coming from just ahead. The man they were pursuing had apparently found some of his companions. Using a boulder for cover, Lindir peered out and could just make out two men on horseback. The slaver who’d lost his mount had now been heaved up behind one of these and was continuing to talk.

Lindir glanced over at his two companions. The one crouching beside him was a lithe and healthy woman in her thirties, the other a young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Both had been members of the original slave band that had escaped several years before. They were swift runners and experienced hunters, but neither had any training in conventional battle techniques or actually fought in a war.

Lindir made a quick decision, “I would give a great deal to have three horses right now, or to know where our cavalry is. But wishing won’t get us far. We are the only three here, and we need to figure out a way to harass these fellows on horseback, even if we are on foot. We’re not an army, and we can’t attack them directly. But all three of us are used to stalking and hunting creatures. The wind is our friend. They dare not take off at a gallop since they cannot see and would risk falling into a chasm or have their horses pull up lame. Even on foot, we can keep up. Let’s not let them know we’re here. We’ll wing out an arrow now and again and retreat quickly. It would be better if we had the cover of trees, but we can make do with the rocks and low growing vegetation. We’ll have to be careful, quiet, and fast--just as we might be in hunting a large and dangerous animal-- since the slavers are sure to try and get back at us.”

“But I don’t understand,” Gretl objected. “Didn’t the slavers attack us at the trench? Who are these men?”

“The group split before they entered camp. There must be others scattered about as well.” A grim image of the grove where the women and children were hiding flashed across Lindir's mind. But for the moment, he could do nothing about that. He pushed away that thought and added, “I don’t where their captain is, but he’s not here. Gretl, Wulf, now is as good a time as any for our scheme. The rocks will help us. Just let your arrow loose and run like mad to get out of the way. Come now. Let’s hunt some game!” Crouching low and carefully advancing from boulder to boulder, they made their way across the plain towards the spot where the men were talking.

[Durelin]

The wind had died down to a bearable strength, and their visibility was increased for a time. The darkness was now less disorienting, and Khamir and Adnan both felt their heads clear a little. They knew they needed to get moving again as quickly as possible, if only because their help was needed elsewhere. Both their bodies ached, though Khamir knew his pains were nowhere near those of Adnan. He was only fifteen…it seemed against nature itself that he should look the way he did, covered in blood. And the man knew it would look worse in the daylight.

Vrór looked no better, but he at least had a pulse. Khamir felt hopeless, not knowing what to do for the Dwarf. He did know he had to get him out of here somehow, so he could get help, but…how were they to carry him? He was a large man, and he worse his heavy chainmail. And should they carry him? He could have any number of injuries that could only be worsened if they moved him. But they had to do something…

“Can you walk?” Khamir asked, softly, his voice full of concern.

Adnan grunted, but did not look at his companion. Khamir took it as a “yes.”

The one-armed man struggled to pull the mail hauberk off of Vrór. Adnan silently began to help him as best he could. They were both as careful as they could manage, and each stared down at the unconscious Dwarf intensely, their faces creased with worry.

“Can you help carry him?” There was another grunt as Khamir slung the chainmail over his shoulder. He stifled a small groan at the weight of it, and the thought of carrying it any lengthy distance. With many groans and heavy breaths they each took up one end of Vrór, neither thinking even for a moment of leaving a companion behind.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Nasim and the others moved as quickly as they could while trying to make as little sound as possible. There was nothing to say that they would not run into any surprise encounters, and if they were not careful, they would be dead in a heartbeat. With only the three of them, they felt exposed.

With shouts and the deep thudding of hooves, all their fears came rushing towards them. The slaves, regardless of how much they had been thinking about such an assault, were not really prepared for it. For a moment they simply froze, all thoughts bent on what the body should be doing but wasn’t. Then Nasim let fly a sharp bullet from his sling, and the others fell into action, as well. One gripped his long knife, the other his rough spear – simply a sharpened stone point, but it had served its purpose well thus far.

It took longer than it should have for their brains to process, but they observed there were only two riders, and though they had other advantages, numbers weren’t meaningless. One rider was knocked down as he approached, and Nasim felt a rush of hope that they had the upper hand, though his logic told him that they were in far over their heads. He was not a fighter! He drew his small blade, which he had never used except to skin and clean kills from the hunt.

His limbs were growing numb and his hands and face cold with sickly sweat, as all his thoughts focused on his own mortality. It was either death or back to being a slave in the hands of these men, and if he was dead, there would never be another chance of escape. Death had never been so frightening, not until he had escaped and tasted freedom. And now, in just a few months, he could not, would not let it go. He mentally cursed himself for being a coward. Did he even deserve that freedom?

Nasim’s thoughts traveled to who he knew were deserving of it, and a different sort of terror caught in his throat. Those who could not fight were in danger, and he who could fight was thinking of his own life? He thought of the mothers, the old, and especially the children, and he found a purpose to the madness other than fear.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

The hobbit’s eyelids flashed open, and he sat up, looking around him. There was Hamin lying on the ground, a dark pool creeping out from beneath him. And Kwell too was just beside him. Why was Kwell still there? Carl realized he must have lost consciousness. “Am I dead? “ Carl coughed behind his kerchief. “Not yet, by the look of it, though I was well on my way. Picked a fine time to get the breath knocked out of me, that’s for certain!”

“But are you alright?” Kwell asked.

Putting his hands on his stomach, Carl quickly pushed here and there to see if anything was amiss. His abdomen was quite painful and he felt overwhelmingly nauseous, but he guessed it wasn’t anything of a serious nature. Satisfied that he would be fine, he pulled his legs out from under Hamins’s knees extricating himself from the tangle, and stood up. “Someone wise once said that hobbits are tougher than they look. But I’m telling you, even though I didn’t crack, I was sure to pop if that had gone on much longer” He offered a hand to Kwell, and helped him to his feet. “But how are you? Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m alright,” the boy said looking doubtfully at the frantic shadows moving around them in the haze, as if he expected something to leap out at them. He hurried to squat beside the dead man.

“What piece of luck saved our hides anyway?” Carl asked. But as Kwell removed his knife from the slaver’s throat, Carl needed no answer. “Is that what happened! Here I had thought to tell you to return to the other children where you’d be safer. But now I’m thinking that they would be safer. They might be needing a stout hearted lad such as you, just now.”

Kwell stopped what he was doing, and looked the hobbit in the eye. “As you can see,” Carl added, “Not all the slavers decided to enter the camp by the front door. As for me, I need to find me some arrows, or a sword or something a bit bigger than my knife! You go take care of Azhar for me, will you? I have a good hunch you might be better at it than me.” With a quick wink, the hobbit picked up his bow and headed off to see if he could find the other archers.

[Tevildo]

After long minutes of coaxing and prodding, Azhar had finally gotten the twins to open up. She had learned that the girls' names were "Lisel" and "Liriel". Such beautiful names for children born in the horrid confines of a Nurn planatation. Their mother must already have been thinking of the day when she would somehow get free and build a new home for her daughters.

Azhar had found it easier to talk with the girls than she had expected. Despite the mad chaos going on in the camp, she had managed to get the twins to trust her. They were cuddled up at her side listening to a whispered story about the fine palace they were all going to build as soon as they got away from this place. She had even begged some scraps of bread from one of the mothers so that the three of them could pretend to sit down and have a grand tea party. Even more importantly, there had not yet been any sign of the slavers. The grove was quiet and relatively peaceful.

But one problem had stubbornly refused to go away. The twins' little brother whose name was Tom would not settle down. He sat some distance from them in a miserable huddle and sucked his thumb as he called out for his mother and shed many tears. No matter how hard she tried, Azhar could not win the boy's confidence or trust. Even Aiwendil's magic drops didn't seem to work. After twenty minutes of balling, he'd worn himself out and fallen into a fitful sleep.

Finishing her story, Azhar excused herself from the girls and explained that she was going over to the bramblebush where Tom was sleeping. The bush was not more than twelve feet away; one of the mothers had promised to keep an eye on the boy while he slept. Azhar arrived at the bush but to her horror there was no sign of Tom. In the place where he'd been sleeping, the only evidence left was a few trampled weeds and a small scarf that he had been wearing. Azhar darted up and down the rows of mothers, anxiously asking if they'd seen Tom but no one could help her. What had happened was all too clear: the boy had decided to go off on his own.

Azhar felt tears swelling up in her eyes. How could she have been so careless? Here, she had berated Kwell for his lack of responsibility and yet her own behavior was worse than his. She had made a solemn promise to Aiwendil that she would do everything she could to keep the children safe, yet she had not even kept a close watch on Tom.

Taking the girls over to one of the other mothers, she'd asked if they could stay there and rest, explaining that she had to do something but would be back in just a little while. Then she loaded a number of the smaller rocks in her pocket and crept out of the grove softly calling Tom's name. l

[Child of the 7th Age]

piosenniel's post - Rôg


By the Great Winged One! The woman was crying.....

‘.....and Dorran’s going to be bringing up more of the wounded people, and soon we’ll be assaulted ourselves, and I don’t know what to do! I can’t mend people with all this wind and sand and – and.....’

Other than his sister, and mother of course, Rôg had never had many close dealings with those of the female persuasion. And to be truthful, he’d never seen his mother cry; she was much too practical a woman for that sort of thing, or so he always thought. His sister’s bouts of tears were in her younger years. Some frustrating thing or other that had gone awry. The tears were brief, and her mood at those points was not one to invite a hug or encouraging words.

Now had Athwen been a child, Rôg would simply have swept her into his arms and made some reassurances. But she was a grown women, and a married one to boot.

He pulled one of his yellow scarves from an inner pocket of his cloak and handed it to her as he gently withdrew his sleeve from her grasp. ‘For your eyes he said.....and you can tie it about your face, to cover your nose and mouth. It will help against the sand. The wounded.....I don’t know what to say about that. Except that I know you will do the best you can until the circumstances change.’

He paused and glanced briefly toward where the old man stood. ‘Aiwendil will take good care of us. Be assured. And I will help as I can.’


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Child of the 7th Age's post - Aiwendil

"Ah! My lady, do not lose heart." Aiwendil reached out with his hand to pat the woman gently on the shoulder. "Athwen, you have done a most admirable thing, leading these fellows straight into the pit. Truly I say that from the bottom of my heart. And telling us about this band is a big help. Since you have stood this perilous course so bravely, you must not doubt that others will do the same. There is too much at stake here.....people's lives and freedom. We must not give up so easily. I promise you that if these brigands attack, we will have our defenses up. Rôg is too modest, but he has a trick or two up that sleeve of his that he is too modest to divulge. And others will come to the grove to help."

"I have set aside a few buckets of water in the grove that you may certainly use. They are hidden under a large rock and protected from the winds. Plus there are a few herbs set there from my satchel that may do your patients some good. I am no healer of Men but sometimes I work with birds and beasts. So perhaps what I use can be helpful for you. If you have time before the wounded are brought in, you might talk with the mothers and have a look at a few of their children. From what I have seen some have suffered greatly at Nurn and could use the gentle hand of a healer. They may help them as much as potions or herbs."

Aiwendil hastily guided Athwen towards one of the women and introduced them. Then he took his leave, explaining that there was much planning to do. Rushing back to Rôg, he thumped the young man on the shoulder so hard that he spun around This time the wizard did not look or sound quite so confident. "Bad news, Rôg. Very bad news! Two of the women have told me that Azhar took off some time ago. The girl went to search for Tom, a little boy I put in her care who apparently slipped away, and all the mothers think that Azhar may be looking for him somewhere outside this grove. They did not see her go, but it does not look good. I would search on my own, but I mustn't leave when these men may attack AT ANY MINUTE. If you Would go out and do a little hunting, perhaps you could find them both and bring them back."

As to the other," he plunged forward without stopping, "I must speak with Lindir and tell him to bring as many men as he can to help us. I have a bad feeling about this band of slavers Athwen saw, and I wonder how many others are going to be heading here as well. You must hurry back as soon as you can. For we may need a helping hand or wing, whatever is available, once the battle starts. I only hope you can find these children before this Imak creature does....."

[Tevildo]

Azhar climbed onto the flat ledge of one of the larger boulders and hugged her knees to her chest, her body curled into a tight little ball. The wind stung hard against her back. Plunging her head into the folds of her skirt, she rocked gently back and forth in an attempt to find some relief from the tangled knot of her feelings, but her mind refused to let go. Two tears welled up and slid down, leaving dirty brown streaks on her cheeks and chin.

For what seemed liked forever, Azhar had scrambled from rock to rock and peered into the tiniest crevices where a small boy might have hidden. All her efforts had been for naught. There had been no trace of the lad. Azhar had a vague sense that a young woman, unarmed and inexperienced, should not be out in the open while a band of slavers still roamed the camp. But her guilt at having failed Tom was even stronger than her fear of being caught. Aiwendil had shown his trust by giving her an important task. It was the first job she’d ever had where she actually had the choice of saying ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Only she had not done it terribly well, and now there was a little boy lost somewhere on these bitter plains. Azhar would have given everything she had, not even stopping at life itself, to see that child safe in his mother’s arms.

The harsh swirl of the sands made it impossible to see more than a few paces away. The first warning of the approach of the men was the pounding of horses’ hooves. For one instant, the young girl thought of trying to run away. But they were almost upon her and, more than that, she had a dreadful presentiment that this trio might know something about where Tom had gone….better to know than not know, even if the truth was hard.

The one thing Azhar had not expected was to recognize one of her attackers. As the horses drew up and she cowered helplessly behind the boulder, the girl caught a glimpse of an all too familiar face. Imak, cruel as ever, slipped down from his horse and came striding over to where she was, jerked her up by the collar and glared down. Imak’s face went a deadly black as the leader of the slavers recognized the girl who had escaped from his camp two days before.

“What a pleasant surprise!” Imak sarcastically intoned. Then he announced to the other men, “This one is mine. She’s one of the two from the pit. The cause of half our troubles!” He took Azhar’s arm and pinned it against her back while snarling, “By the time I’m through, you’ll wish you were dead.”

In desperation, Azhar peered around hoping to see someone who could help but she was alone in this wasteland. Taking in the other riders, she glimpsed something that made her heart pound: a tiny body sprawled across one of the saddles. Whether the child was dead or alive, she could not see. But it was definitely Tom. The reality slowly hit her. No man would carry along a body of an enemy in the midst of battle. Spurred on by the knowledge that Tom was probably alive, she struggled with all her might to wrench free, kicking and flailing as she struggled towards the boy and called out his name. Azhar hardly knew what she was doing or why. She only knew she had to get over to Tom.

“So you know this one?” sneered Imak, taking hold again on Azhar’s collar and yanking her back.

“No, no, I’ve never seen him.” The girl protested. By now she was shaking with fear.

“That’s funny. I could have sworn I heard you call out a name.” Imak sauntered over to the unconscious child and removed his dagger from his belt, grinning at the girl. “Well, no friend of yours is a friend of mine.” With one rapid movement, he flashed his arm up intending to plunge the blade into the boy’s body.

Everything happened so fast that Azhar, even years later, could never explain how or why the change took place. It was almost like a dream. One moment Azhar was a girl standing there helpless while Tom was about to be killed and the next moment there was a quiet flash of understanding. Yes, mother, that’s how I do it. Faster than Imak’s arm could descend the little girl was gone and instead a gigantic brown bear roared up on his hind legs. Turning towards Imak, the bear reached out with a single swift paw and smacked the man on his side, sending him sprawling on the ground. The bear gave a triumphant growl and turned towards the other men, preparing to charge.

But the bear stopped dead in her tracks, shook her great lumbering head as if she was dazed, and then collapsed on the ground in a tangled heap. One moment the men were staring at a bear, scrambling to get away, and the next instant the little girl had come back.

Imak struggled to sit up, the pain pounding through his side, and then called out to one of his men. “Kill her Urgl. She’s a witch.”

The man turned his horse around and then dismounted, drawing out his sword as he strode over to where the girl lay.