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

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur heaved himself up and stared blankly at the tall Uruk who had unexpectedly stomped into the middle of their tent. It took a moment for the meaning of the words to penetrate his brain.

Ishkur's first impulse was to tongue lash the Uruk for trying to play a foolish game on them. Ishkur glanced over towards Gwerr and, seeing a look of complete bewilderment etched on his companion's face, stuck his head through the opening of the tent and stared westward. Barely visible on the far fringes of the encampment was a small contingent of horses and mannish riders that had already reached the portion of the camp where the other orcs were sleeping.

Ishkur's second impulse was to agree with Makdush, grab up his things, and hightail it out onto the plain to the south, putting a very large distance between himself and these intruders, whoever they might be. He wanted and needed to protect the gold they had found. That money held the promise to a new life. But before he could open his mouth and yell at Gwerr to leave the tent, another image came tripping into his mind. What good would all that gold be if he and Gwerr were on their own with no other orcs beside them? What kind of a life would they have? There would be no orc women to wait on him or do the cooking....no possibility of a mate of his own. Lately, Ishkur had been thinking about that a lot. He had also been thinking about how nice it would be if he and Gwerr could be the acknowledged leaders of the other orcs. To be truthful, he had really enjoyed the few times he had been able to stand up and speak for the group and get the others to go along with his ideas.

Turning towards Makdush, he growled, "You lowly toad.....afraid? Just like a Uruk...all talk and no action. Afraid that a bunch of riders--WOMEN riders--can take you down? I'm not leaving here. We came here to start a group of our own, a place where the bosses can't push us into the mud. Maybe you've forgotten that. I haven't. Maybe we can't save all the others. But I think we can make enough trouble that we can save some of them, maybe steal some of their horses, and get out of here, or maybe even run them through clean and take everything they have." Before Ishkur could say anything more, Gwerr had also joined in the argument.

[Nogrod]

Makdush, Ishkur & Gwerr

Gwerr was probably the most surprised himself as he realised he was siding with the Uruk in this. But what Ishkur had just proposed was total foolery to him.

“Now listen to me you maggot! Twelve to fifteen of them... on horseback! What are you thinking with the birdbrain that’s given to you my friend?” He glanced at the Uruk from the corner of his eyes and saw him grinning to this new developement. Gwerr was trembling with anger and was already reaching for the hilt of his axe before he came back to his senses and concentrated to his fellow again, now with lower and more tempered voice.

“Okay mate. I know you have had hard times, we all have. I also know you have acted somewhat weird lately. That’s fine with me. It’s your own stinking life anyhow. But do I...” he glanced back to the Uruk once again, giving him the most challenging stare he managed, “...do we have to hammer sense into your empty head?” he spat the word we. “So you think we three should run to them over the open, right? We’ll stand no chance that way. Can’t you see it?”

Gwerr took Ishkur from the shoulders and came close to his face. “Listen to me. We get out of here and we do it fast before they come close enough to find us. Right? Then we search for the females and the brats... After that we reconsider. We may try a surprise attack to save some of them later – if they leave any of them alive in the first place – or to rob them of everythnig they have. Whatever... But that's then. Not now! With the females we have a force enough to beat them. But the three of us? No chance in an open attack. You know it.”

Taking care to show his back to the Uruk Gwerr winked an eye to Ishkur and nodded very carefully towards the horse. Without a sound his lips formed a clear articulation of the word “remember”.

“What are you two doing? We’re in a hurry. They are inside the camp already!” Makdush called them from near the entrance where he had slipped to follow the developement of the situation in the camp.

“Just hold a second, big-boy!” Gwerr said and drew his axe. With two steps and a single blow he cut the backwall of the tent open from as high he could to the ground. “We leave from here. Now let’s move!”

The three rushed from the tent. Makdush went first, Ishkur led the horse and Gwerr came last. Smootly they disappeared to the sparse thicket beginning from behind the slaver-commander’s tent and in a moment they were already outside any visibilty from the encampment as the few larger boulders and the low hillocks hid them neatly.

After a short walk Makdush climbed a small mound and tried to get a view back to the camp.

Ishkur and Gwerr both stopped. “Hey brute, what’s going on back there?” Gwerr asked the Uruk.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

As Carl’s horse joined the knot of riders that gathered on the very verge of the slaver’s camp, he noticed that Beloan was casting looks about that were very dark indeed, quickly silencing anyone that so much as dared to whisper. The hobbit looked questioningly toward Lindir, and following the elf’s glance, guided his horse to the edge of the group in order to see what it was that held his attention. There just a few yards before them was not the camp’s guard, as he half expected, but rather an assemblage most grotesque. Misshapen forms sprawled in the dust, and Carl assumed they were long dead, their mouths gaping. But as he looked closer, the deathly pallor of some appeared broken by splotches of rosy red, where the sun had scorched them. And here and there the hobbit saw a jaw move, or an arm flail out at some invisible insect, and he came to the realization that these must be orcs. Strange ones sure enough, basking like cats in the sun.

Carl absently pushed back the curls that clung to his forehead as he digested this latest twist. He hadn’t reckoned on meeting any orcs so far from the mountains. Judging by all the accounts he was familiar with, he had only associated them with mountain passes of one sort or another. And to find them here came as a most unwelcome surprise. Frankly, after all the fighting and worry and sorrow, not to mention the empty stomach that groaned in his belly, he had neither the caution nor good sense he might have had otherwise, but waxed angry. No doubt the filthy brutes had rummaged though anything worth taking back to the injured. And most likely they had pawed through the food as well. Spitting as his stomach rumbled, he thought of their own limited supplies.

If only he had some notion of how deeply orcs dream! His eyes darted about the littered camp, seeking scattered stores. Perhaps he and the others could quietly gather what they needed and be off before they were discovered by the bleary-eyed monsters. Finally, spying the barrel that lay beside the orcs, his own weary eyes became fixed upon it as he awaited some direction to be given by those more familiar with the creatures than he.

Ah what a sorry shame this is! he thought to himself, as he wondered if any other casks might yet remain untouched…perhaps there in that tent sitting far away from the slumbering creatures. No, that plumb was sure to have been plundered! Bound to have been some leader’s quarters, with maps maybe…and medicine?

[Folwren]

Kwell sat atop his horse with Azhar mounted behind him. He could feel her leaning to one side so that she could see and hear Lindir as well as he. Her arms around his waist pulled at him slightly and he shifted his weight to counter balance hers.

Lindir told them in very few words the situation of the matter. Drunk orcs, Kwell thought with distain. His eyes flicked beyond Beloan and Lindir and looked towards the camp. Now that he knew what to look for, he saw the bodies of the beastly things.

“Why don’t we just kill them and have done?” he asked, the words slipping gruffly from him before he could stop to think about them. He paused briefly. There must be an explanation to his words, he thought. He looked at Lindir and said as though in defense. “They won’t do us any good!”

[Firefoot]

Johari

Had Lindir not motioned for them to stop, Johari would have continued to heedlessly ride on into the camp; her mind had been focused on other things: at first, how nice it was to be away from the camp, and, yes, away from Hadith for a while, and the conflicting emotions he brought to mind, but now mostly her thoughts turned to how very uncomfortable her horse's back was. No matter how she shifted, she could not find a comfortable position on the hard leather saddle. She had never ridden a horse before, and it had not occurred to her when she volunteered for this expedition that they would not be walking but riding. On finding out, she had initially been non-plussed; it had not seemed that difficult of an affair. Already, though, she could tell that she would soon be sore, despite their slow pace, and she still had a ride back to endure.

The sight of the Orcs caused her to forget her present discomfort, however. While her primary hatred was directed towards the slavers and her old plantation overseers, she bore Orcs no love. A flame stirred in her eyes and her hand immediately strayed to her knife hilt. When the boy Kwell spoke for killing them, she readily agreed. "Even more than that, they may do us ill! If we kill them in their sleep, it's no less than I reckon they would do to us! We have already fought one enemy, and most are too weary or hurt to face another. Let us be done with them!"

[Durelin]

Khamir

Since the scouts had left early that morning, Khamir had been up and about, limping around the little camp they had thrown together, and resuming many of the same duties he had when they were still in the cave. They were not as great in number, but he thought they were stronger. At least they were more together now than ever, and all of the former slaves had welcomed in the new additions, even though they were outsiders.

At the moment, all were especially quite taken with Athwen and her skills, her hard work, and her simple kindness. The idea of someone taking care of them, particularly when that someone had no obligation to, was not something most of the former slaves had experienced in a long time. They had cared for each other in bits and pieces as necessary, and some of the older had taken the younger under their wing, but…it had been all about them depending on each other for survival. If only they had realized sooner that they all were dependent as part of the whole.

Khamir did his best to round up some more people to help Athwen, and gathered up those capable to help pack up their small camp so that they’d be ready to move when the scouting party came back or other word came. As they were not sure what they might find in camp, perhaps they might need extra hands to carry it all back? Many were excited about the prospect of fresh food or water, though some were convinced that anything those Easterlings ate could not be edible to any normal person. And all in the back of their minds liked the idea of what things of value might be found. Of course, only the young actually shared those hopes aloud.

Doing his best to ignore the sharp pains in his leg, Khamir helped gather things up onto the small cart that had survived their travels thus far largely intact, with limited repairs. The number of those who could actually do any sort of manual labor was depressingly few to the one-armed man, and so even what he could do was of help. But more than that, he hated being left behind. He knew very well that no one thought him worthless, and that with his injury he would have been a burden, but that did not mean he did not feel worthless.

After a time, though, even he had to admit that he could do no more until he had rested a bit, and so he limped his way back to where Vrór and Adnan were still recovering. Both had been sleeping all morning so far, thankfully. It was all they could really do to help their recovery along. Khamir had been so glad to see so many alive he had feared for, particularly Hadith. The last time until well after the battle he had seen the young man was at the battle’s start. Why was what it he suddenly worried about so many people? It was rather…annoying.

When Khamir sat down a little more roughly than he meant to in between the Dwarf and Adnan, Vrór turned his head to look up at the one-armed man.

“Good morning, Vrór,” Khamir said in a voice little above a whisper. The Dwarf smiled slightly in response. “Did you manage to sleep alright?” the Southron asked.

Vrór’s smiled disappeared, and he wrinkled his brow in thoughtful confusion. It took several moments before he answered with a hesitant, “I don’t quite know…it sounds funny, but, I really don’t think I remember…”

Khamir frowned with worry. “Do you remember when you woke up?”

There were another few moments of silence, and then Vrór barked a small laugh. Khamir thought there might have been a twinge of bitterness to it. Then the Dwarf spoke, “Khamir, I think I may have a…problem.”

[Tevildo]

Azhar's grip on Kwell's waist tightened as the meaning of the words sunk in. She hardly knew what to say. She had no special love for orcs. They were dirty, and they smelled and looked too different. Frankly, they scared her. She had heard terrible stories when sitting around the campfire late at night how orcs devoured the flesh of men and attacked without even the slightest reason other than an overwhelming lust for blood.

Yet there was something about Johari and Kwell's eagerness to kill that made Azhar uneasy. The few orcs she had known on the plantation were little different than their Easterling overlords. She had felt the sting of the whip from both. If Kwell and Johari had found unknown Easterlings asleep in the camp, would they have run them through in their beds without even a second thought? Azhar did not think so.

As a tiny child, she recalled the haunting words of one old granny who always spoke about how things would be better now that the Dark Lord had been defeated. The slaves on the plantations would be freed and, ever so slowly, Easterlings and orcs would change their ways. Azhar had not believed the grey headed one then, although part of her had wanted to. Intervening years had only confirmed her opinon. No one had come to strip off their shackles; the Easterlings and orcs kept acting the same way they always had. But Azhar could not forget how the old granny's eyes had brightened when she spoke about the possibility of change.

And then there was the puzzle that Rôg presented. She was still worred about how he was feeling and had not had the chance to talk with him after the battle. But she had seen once what he could do. The great wyrm could probably slay a troop of fifty men unaided, yet Rôg had chosen to act only when someone was directed threatened. Azhar instinctively sensed that these two problems were somehow connected, though she couldn't have put the meaning into words. The uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach was not going away.

Seeing the hard look in the eyes of both her companions, she turned around to address Lindir in a muted voice, "Kill them? Run them through in their beds? But isn't there any other way?"

[Firefoot]

Grask had been napping in the shade beneath one of the wagons - a nice, out of the way spot, as he thought - when he was woken by the sounds of hoofbeats and voices. At first he was afraid, thinking that the slavers had returned and now he was trapped beneath one of their wagons in mid-day.

But their voices did not sound like the slavers' voices. They were quieter, more furtive, and they seemed to have stopped rather than dispersing into the camp.

As quietly as he could, Grask crept to the edge of the wagon and looked out. The angle was awkward, and he could only see the riders' backs, but it became quickly clear that these were not, in fact, the slavers. For one thing, there appeared to be females among them, which struck Grask as peculiar. More importantly, he realized that the two who were riding double were the man-children who had disappeared from the pit. They were alive! Grask did not know why this should make him so happy, but it did. They did not frighten him, and their presence made him also fear the rest of the group less.

Now one of them spoke, the male child. Grask thought he was mishearing. Kill them, he'd said! And then a woman's voice spoke, and she agreed with him! Grask began to tremble with both fear and anger. Hadn't Grask tried to help the pair in the tunnel? Hadn't he? And the boy said kill them! And if they would kill these Orcs in their drunken sleep, he knew that they would not stop at killing him, if he was found. He could not be found here! He backed away and in his agitation missed the gentle words of the female child. He crawled out from under the wagon on the side opposite these merciless Men. It was only a short dash to the cover of vegetation; Grask took a deep breath and ran, his feet making only the slightest noise on the dusty ground. Within seconds he was vanishing into the vegetation. They mustn't find him. Without really thinking about his direction, he headed for the Orc-camp. Perhaps the females would be there; they seemed to have disappeared from the slavers' camp quite some time ago. They ought to be told of this, Grask thought, especially if all their males were to be killed in their sleep... but not Ishkur, Grask hoped. He had not been drunk like the others. The thought of this Orc who had shown him some kindness almost made Grask turn and go back - hadn't he said that he might need Grask's help someday? - but he continued on his path. He would tell the females first, and then maybe he would go back.