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

[Durelin]

The dead bodies Shae and Khamir came across as they entered the grove were frightening, and they began to think the worst. He saw a woman and a child, and he knew that the slavers really had attacked those most helpless. With what strength they had, the two former slaves headed toward the sounds of battle, though the sensible parts of their minds tried to instruct them otherwise. As the screams and shouts grew louder, the two saw two other figures ahead of them, obviously slavers, heading in the same direction. Khamir marveled at how deep into the grove the Easterlings had managed to get, and he felt sick not only because of his wounds and exhaustion.

“Let’s try to be quiet,” the Southron whispered to Shae, “If we can sneak up on those guys, we’ll have a chance.”

Shae nodded in response, and they crept farther into the grove, in the footsteps of the golden-clad men. When the two slavers suddenly lurched forward, weapons raised, Khamir and Shae raced forward, as well. The one-armed man screamed in pain as he leapt off of both his good and bad leg, but he managed to propel himself onto one of the enemies, plunging his knife down as he did, forcing the blade into the back of the Easterling’s neck.

As the man fell before him, Khamir stumbled forward himself, and he found his eyes watching the ground, the dying body, and the other end of his dagger come at him, knowing that his reaction would be too slow to stop himself from…

Something suddenly crossed into his line of vision and he felt himself hit something soft, and felt a strong grip on his arm. He was righted, and found himself staring into the eyes of Beloan. Khamir could only smile in gratitude, and his friend smiled back. Then they both turned to Shae, to see her sheathing her own knife, the other Easterling dead at her feet with stab wounds from both Beloan and the woman, from forward and behind. Khamir smirked: his two friends were already on the move again, and he was left to slump to the ground next to his latest kill.

There came a shout retreat from one of the slavers who still persisted in battle: “Retreat, these dogs can bite!” The Easterling raged in his own tongue as he broke away from confrontation and took off out of the grove, almost stumbling over dead bodies as he went. The others followed as best they could. Some of the former slaves who still had fervor in them chased after their enemies or fired at them with their bows. But it was clear that even all of the energy these fighters had left wasn’t put into this effort. Khamir smiled. They were not like those Easterlings, they were better, and they had won…

A groan shook the form he had thought forever-still in front of him. His heart leapt, and as if by reflex he reached for a throwing dagger. The blade was drawn, but Khamir did not move into action, even as he watched the slaver wrench the knife out of himself and struggle slowly to his feet. The Southron had worried there was not enough force behind his blade, and he had not gotten to finish the job…but he did not regret it.

The Easterling gripped Khamir’s knife as he turned around to face the one-armed man. The enemies’ eyes met, but neither attacked. The slaver threw the blade onto the ground and took off after his companions. Khamir watched him go, and did nothing. He looked up, and saw Shae looking at him, her face startlingly blank.

“We are free!” Beloan roared, his voice louder and stronger than his friend had ever heard it. The response was loud and heart-felt, if a little ragged.

Shae and Beloan did their best to help Khamir to Athwen and the wounded, as his leg began to refuse to support his weight at all, but each helped support the other just to keep them standing, all three exhausted and hurt. The one-armed man was relieved to see so many of his companions alive, if not all very well. Lindir was carrying Dorran, but reported he was still alive. Vrór was still unconscious, but his breathing was slowly returning to normal. Carl was wounded, but still on his feet, and Athwen was still fine. Rôg had only recently awakened, but it seemed he was recovering nicely. Khamir could momentarily forget the dead.

But the Southron had left Adnan conscious, so when he saw the young man lying still on the ground, he broke away from his friends and stumbled towards him. And though he found the boy was breathing, he sat down beside him and would not leave.

The battle was over, but as he looked around him at Vrór and Adnan and others lying bandaged and suffering, he knew the fight was not over, and remembered that their journey was far from it.

Now he knew they could do it, though – and they would make it. They could be free people, together.

[Durelin]

Khamir and Adnan

The movement and sounds around him, from shouts of joy to grieving sobbing, blurred as Khamir felt his mind drifting and his eyelids willing themselves shut. Shae was alive, Adnan was alive, Beloan, Hadith, Johari… It was over, and he could rest now…sleep now…

“Where’d they go?” a hoarse voice asked beside him. His eyes snapped open to meet Adnan’s. Khamir smiled, glad to see the boy awake. He snorted a laugh as he watched Adnan try to sit up, shaking his head.

“They’re gone. We’ve won. So there will be no more heroics for you,” he grinned, but the young man didn’t smile back, and looked away.

“I did nothing heroic,” Adnan murmured bitterly, obviously finding it difficult to allow the words out of his mouth. “The…the way…what I did…” he turned his eyes back to Khamir, “It was wrong.”

Khamir sighed and frowned with concern. The way the boy had…slaughtered that slaver had scared him, he knew. Perhaps the blood he saw cover Adnan, who had put childhood behind him by only a few years, had made him stay his hand in the end, because he had grown so sick of it.

“But that’s what makes you different from people like them,” Khamir told the young man with quiet severity and sincerity, “from those slavers – you know it was wrong.”

Adnan was silent for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was strangely hollow, the obvious emotion missing from its tone. “He used to beat me and laugh. He was an Easterling. I hate them. All of them.”

The younger man’s confession made his actions suddenly clear to Khamir, and tore at his heart. “And how does vengeance feel?” the one-armed man asked. More silence followed, while Khamir listened to both his and the boy’s ragged breaths.

“Terrible.”

[Nogrod]

Gwerr (and Ishkur)

Gwerr had gone through Imak's tent just to be secure there wasn't something worthy of plundering left. But there wasn't. Then he went to Thunderclap and patted it slightly deep in his thoughts. Ooh, what a name... Please Ishkur!

Gwerr wasn't basically a friendly fellow. The millenia's he had lived had learned him not to be. But horses were his weak spot or at least as weak as anything could get with him. They were powerful and independent but still manageable creatures. Once a horse had saved his life... or he had saved his life with the help of a horse. It was how you looked at it, back then in Dagor Bragollach... Those were times... he sighed quietly to himself and took hold of Thunderclap's reins.

"Fine creature you are for someone who's not an orc", he whispered to it's ear. He worked with the horse easily enough so that it didn't fear him anymore but was settling down from all the excitement it had had earlier.

"Cool boy... cool boy, just relax mate. You're our treasureholder now and we wish you to stay calm... easy and calm..."

Suddenly there were noises outside the tent and soon Ishkur was back in looking curiously at Gwerr tending the horse.

"So Gwerr the cold, loving the beast or the gold now are you?" he smiled as he walked to the ale-barrell.

"Oh, shut up you sunshine!" Gwerr replied tightly and left the horse. "So mr. good-will, have you already spread all of your gold in a whim of human generosity?", he added as he came to the barrell as well.

The two looked at each other deep into each other's eyes, measuring their feelings and relative positions yet again.

"Just leave it Gwerr!" Ishkur said at last, taking a long draught from his goblet, after which he belched loudly and then laughed. "We're cool now. Don't you worry my friend. Take some more ale!" With that Ishkur sat down, looking satisfied.

Gwerr emptied his goblet and filled it again from the barrell. He studied Ishkur for a while while still standing but then settled down to sit beside him. He played with the goblet in his hands for a moment, took a sip and then addressed Ishkur in a more serious manner. He had been thinking about this for a time now.

"Now tell me my troubled mate, when are the slavers coming back? And is this Elven-king coming back as well?"

"How the blazes I would know that?" he replied from instinct but immediately thought better of it: Gwerr looked concerned and Ishkur had now noticed it.

"You're right, most of the males are drunk as Mordor. Zuhut and Griwzan have more or less passed out already and a couple of the Uruk-brutes were on their way to it... Colagar was half to his senses, I guess."

The two orcs looked at each other. The situation was not a good one and they both realised it.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Have you fools lost your minds?" Makdush glared at Illak and Kurrak, picked up one of the empty ale flagons that someone had tossed to the ground, and sent it hurtling in Illak's direction. The cup nicked the Uruk on the side of the temple and elicited an immediate response. Roaring in discontent, Illak drew out a sword and stumbled forward towards Makdush, waving his weapon wildly. The taller Uruk pushed the blade harmlessly to one side, toppling Illak to the ground and sneering at him, "You're drunk. both of you, drunk and worthless. What happens if the slavers return or those who fight them? You're just asking to have your skulls cracked open. Gah, you make me sick."

Makdush stepped back from the firepit where they had been sitting and stamped off through the camp, looking for any orcs who had managed to keep their heads clear and their wits about them. His search was singularly unsuccessful. The women and younger orcs had seemingly disappeared, but every one of the warriors were deep in their cups and unable to stand upright, let alone attempt to fight. It was only when he got to the largest tent in the middle of the campsite, the place where he had stolen the sword that belonged to the slavers' leader, that he heard coherent voices coming from within.

Pushing back the flap of the tent, Makdush stuck his head inside and saw two familiar figures: Ishkur and Gwerr. Scowling and cursing, the Uruk pushed his way in and immediately turned on Ishkur: "This is your fault. You brought us here. Have you seen what is happening? They are all roaring drunk....Uruk and orc warriors alike. And the women? They must have taken to their heels and run. They're nowhere in camp. So what do you propose to do if the slavers return? Or what if the slaves are victorious and they come for their spoils?" Makdush glared straight at Ishkur all the while cursing himself for having taken up with such a worthless band of ill disciplined and empty headed fools.

[Tevildo]

For the second time in less than two days, Dorran found himself lying flat on his back, struggling to make sense of the tumult and confusion that assaulted his senses on every side. The grove was a muddled mass of people running back and forth; their buzzing noise only exacerbated the throbbing sensation inside his head. Dorran's fingers inched upward to his temple where he discovered the edge of a dressing that someone had bound neatly about his temples.

Considerable numbers of the injured lay stretched out on the ground waiting for someone to come and care for their wounds. Dorran pushed against the foggy haze that threatened to send him reeling back into darkness. He could remember the last frantic minutes of his struggle with the slaver and how Athwen had managed to untie Azhar and lead her away. Slowly and with some pain, he scanned the grove looking for a familiar face. He immediately noted that all the slavers had been killed or driven away. Despite his discomfort, the Rider reacted with the quick instincts of an experienced fighter. He wanted to learn how their own group had fared and, just as importantly, what their next step would be. Where was Vrór, Carl, Rôg or Lindir? Had Azhar and Shae and Kwell made it through the battle? And, most important of all, exactly where was his wife? Dorran groggily sat up and called out with an unsteady voice, trying to get someone's attention.

[Folwren]

Athwen let Azhar slip quietly to the ground with her back against a rock as soon as they came to the place where the wounded were gathered. As she straightened slowly, Athwen passed a quick hand over Azhar’s forehead, checking once more to see if any remnant of a fever had returned with the girl’s recent excursion. Besides the heat of movement, there was no unnatural, feverishness there. Azhar winced and drew her leg back so that she could wrap her hand around it. Athwen nodded in approval. Pressure would help the pain.

“Azhar,” she said. “You stay here and wait for me. I must see to the more pressing wounds over here. You can wait, can’t you?”

Azhar looked beyond Athwen at the figures of wounded men, some sitting in a hunched position, other lying flat on their backs, and still others lying in twisted forms in their attempts to relieve pain of wounds. She nodded, understanding, and Athwen turned away.

She walked forward to resume her work once more, but her footsteps halted suddenly as she saw Lindir walking slowly into sight, encumbered with the body of Dorran held tightly and carefully in his arms. She dashed forward with beating heart and reached them just as Lindir was lowering Dorran to the ground.

“What’s wrong? What happened? Is he killed?”

It was really her job to find out, but she had forgotten that for an instant. But as Lindir spoke as assuringly as he could that Dorran was not killed and that he thought Dorran was only knocked out, Athwen’s wits came back to her at once. Quick observation told her more than Lindir could - Dorran was still breathing quite steadily and his blood still pumped.

“Silly man,” she murmured, as her fingers gently explored the new bash on his head. “You would go and bump your head again.” She skipped up to her feet, took a few steps away to reach her bag and came back immediately. She drew a strip of bandage from it and quickly and gently bound it about Dorran’s bleeding head. Lindir was still standing nearby when she had finished. Athwen stood and turned to him. “Lindir, what else needs to be done? Is the fighting over?”

“I believe it is,” Lindir replied, turning and looking out. “The last of them have been repulsed and have ridden away. We must gather the scattered women and children and then decide what is next to be done.”

“If there are still some of us who are not wounded and not scattered, can they not help me?” Athwen asked. “I have run out of water. And if there are any more wounded out there, they need to be brought back.” Her eyes strayed passed Lindir to watch Khamir as he was helped, limping, back to the grove. “If there is anyone who knows a single thing about such work as this, or anyone who is smart enough to learn, I’d want them, too,” she said, looking back at Lindir.

“Well,” the elf began doubtfully, “I’ll see what can be done.”

“Thank you,” Athwen replied, smiling slightly, and then she turned back to work and Lindir went out. Athwen walked forward, checking on each of the people there, taking stock of what she had done and what she had yet to do.

Beside Adnan, who had lost consciousness (Athwen was more likely to believe it was from loss of blood than from faintness of heart) while she had not yet finished tending to him, Khamir now sat, leaning heavily against the wall of rock. His eyes were shut and his face seemed almost relaxed. Athwen knew that his leg was hurt - he had limped badly as he came - but she did not know to what extent it was wounded.

Near those two, Vrôr lay. He had not moved at all since he had been first brought on. Last Athwen had checked, his breathing had evened out. She thought he would soon be coming to himself.

Then there was Hadith, the first one she had dealt with. He, too, had not really come back to a real waking. Her eyes continued to sweep the small enclosement. Two she did not know were sitting in miserable silence, enduring as mutely as they could their wounds. One had had an arrow through his calf, rendering him almost useless in any attempt to chase anyone and fight. He had made it back to the grove slowly and painfully, helped part of the way by a companion who he said had been killed. The other had been knocked down by a horse and then trampled upon by another one. Athwen suspected at least one broken rib as well has a broken collar bone and arm. She shook her head and her eyes passed on as she thought, ‘You are actually rather lucky...’

There were three who had died of their wounds - the blades that had cut them or the arrows that had pierced them had either caused so much blood to flow before she could stop it that they died slowly, or had struck upon those important portals of blood that carried the human life and they had died quickly and surely. Her eyes lingered on one of those. He lay with a look of peace on his face now. It had been a long struggle that had ended only a few minutes earlier. She had tried to fight for him, to help him, but to no avail. He had died with her hands still struggling to preserve his life.

There were still others that she had not yet fully tended to. Their wounds were painful, but once she had seen to it that the bleeding would stop, they were not so dangerous as to be rushed to immediately. Now she had time, but no water.

Her eye suddenly caught a movement. She looked across the short space sharply and saw Dorran moving. His hand lifted to his head and he touched the new bandage. He lay there a moment, seemingly trying to see about him. Then, to Athwen’s astonishment and disapproval, he sat up. One hand was pressed against his head, but his eyes were open and he was calling.

Athwen thread her way carefully through the bodies between her and Dorran and then ran forward and knelt before him on one knee. Her hands pressed against his shoulders, urging him to lay back down.

“What do you think you’re doing, dearest?” she asked, with only the slightest sound reproval in her voice. “Stay down. You’re trembling like a leaf already with the attempt of sitting up.” It was only a slight tremor, true, but enough for her to make an excuse to keep him down. “Dorran, it’s not good that you got hit again.”

“I can’t say it was my idea,” Dorran answered with a grimace.

“Sure it was not. But it was yours to try to sit up. Now, will you promise to lie still until I’ve had a chance to assess the damage done to your skull?”....

[Child of the 7th Age]

One part of Lindir’s mind was filled with relief. Despite the slaves’ lack of battle experience and their assortment of ragtag weapons, they had actually managed to prevail on the field. They had killed or driven off the last of the slavers who had threatened to wrench away their freedom. For the moment, they could rejoice in their success.

Yet the hours immediately following a battle are never easy, and this time was no exception. Three companions of Lindir--Vrór, Rôg, and Dorran--lay among the injured, while Aiwendil was nowhere to be seen. Aiwendil’s disappearance did not surprise the elf. His earlier dealings with Gandalf had taught him that wizards have a way of vanishing at the most unexpected times. He supposed that the old man would soon reappear but where or when that would be he could not guess. Still, it was a bad time for Aiwendil to be missing. Carl was a tough fighter and had suffered only a minor scrape, but he had even less experience in the conduct and aftermath of war than either Aiwendil or Rôg. The temporary loss of Vrór and Dorran was even harder to take. Lindir missed both their counsel and friendship. .

Lindir had spent the past hour doggedly trying to organize the camp. He had done the practical things that were necessary: securing helpers for Athwen, bringing in the wounded from the field, and beginning the difficult job of collecting the bodies of those who had died. But the latter had proven to be an overwhelming task for the solitary elf. Gathering up the bodies of the two children who had been killed, he had carried them over to the makeshift byre, placing them gently amid the tangled boughs. They were too young, even by the standards of a mannish lifespan. Born into slavery, these little ones had come so close to winning a real life, but had been denied at the last moment. Could he have done something differently to stop this terrible thing from happening? Lindir’s mind circled feverishly as he asked himself this question.

Gloomily he reflected that there would be no grave or memorial for any who had fallen in today’s battle. The best that could be offered was a pile of cold ashes in a distant land. Lindir felt old shadows return: ghosts of memories from bitter wars fought in the First and Second Age that refused to slip away. In those hard times, there had been young victims too. He remembered one in particular: a young friend wrenched away from his mother’s arms and carried off or slain by one of Morgoth’s raiding parties. Sometimes it seemed as if the cycle would never end.