The Fellowship of the Fourth Age (Part 1): A New Beginning RPG - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

Durelin · 08-30-2007, 01:13 PM

Hardly to Khamir’s surprise, various members of Elessar’s envoy voiced complaints regarding the decision, but it was done and even they knew it. He, Shae, and other familiar faces marched dutifully to the pit, some seeming more eager than others. Khamir avoided looking at Shae perhaps so she would not see the confusion in his eyes and take it as a sign of weakness.

The silent consensus among the volunteer executioners seemed to be that the deed would not be done in the pit, but rather a little ways outside their camp. If they moved the living bodies away from where they would sleep, there would be no need to drag the corpses very far. It would all be very logical, very practical from here on out. The sensibility of the plan was obvious to Khamir, but he could not completely ignore a feeling that he was going through the motions of some ritual. His knife felt particularly heavy in his hand.

But the Orcs were not prepared to have their throats slit as simple prisoners. Something did not feel right about the apparent resigned nature of the orcs to their fate, and then Khamir noticed...ropes? “Look down there, at the low end of the bars!” he shouted with great urgency, and Shae, Qat, and Beloan were quick to follow his discovery to the same conclusion.

“The orcs are on the loose! We need more men here!” Beloan cried, keeping his head and realizing that they needed more than one man to each Orc to manage them now they were free and desperate to save their lives or bring down as many men with them as possible. Khamir’s own desperation drove him far more than his anger or loathing.

The fight ended with the Orcs recaptured and some of them much worse for wear. Even Khamir agreed with Beloan when he spoke of dignity when he saw what shape Makdush was in at the hands of the former slaves. Surely many of them had seen men and women brutalized in such a way at the hands of Orcs - though also likely at the hands of certain men - but…that was what Orcs did. Beginning to feel he was getting too close to agreeing with Aiwendil, Khamir fell back into focusing on the recaptured Orcs and the knife in his hand.

Weapons drawn and held close to the victims, the Orcs were led away, the men and women who were not their executioners still standing by with their own knives, bows, slings, and spears at the ready. They all understood that any animal was most ferocious when it was cornered.

The general quiet as the Orcs were marched a short distance from the camp made the situation darkly awkward. The heat in the air from the passion and anger of the debaters had dissipated, cooled to a chill. Nothing seemed to be fueling the ceremony: no hatred, anger, or fear; and no spark to light them. A number of people followed the party, but very few threw out the rare jeer or justification, and even fewer paid them any mind.

Sweating, aching, light-headed, heavy…oh yes, Khamir remembered, that’s what it was…tired. They were all so tired, weren’t they?

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, typically curt and gruff. Agreement was voiced among the spectators - or the guards, or the witnesses; whatever they might be called - as a final verdict not on the guilt but on the fitness of the punishment.

Man liked lines and order, they liked having a system to things. So the Orcs were haphazardly lined up, then forced on their knees. The scowls, the snarls, and the snapping of the cornered animals were ignored, and instead each creature was given the privilege of a personal executioner. Man watched each other, learned from each other, copied each other. Once one or two held their knives at the throats, the rest followed suit.

For a moment the Orcs were suspended just before the end as the Men waited for the word, the sign; and the first laceration of flesh; and perhaps even the last, vain effort of the captives to alter their fate.

But none of it came.

Firefoot · 08-31-2007, 03:18 PM

Grask had watched the entire proceeding with increasing anxiety. The subtleties of conversation had been over his head, but he had caught the drift: there were a few who wanted to let Ishkur and the others live, but most of them had voted for murder. He did not know why he had hoped at all; the stories were true, it seemed; Men were just as vicious as they reported Orcs to be. What would he do? Where would he go? His path had been bound up in those of these Orcs that were about to die.

Their meeting broke up; the Men hauled up the Orc males from the pit none too gently. Grask strove to catch Ishkur’s eye in hopes of some guidance, but to no avail; Ishkur was not looking for him, and even if he was, Grask was too well hidden. The Orcs were marched out of the camp, and Grask, seeming to have no will of his own left, trailed behind as far as his cover extended. They were lined up; knives and swords were drawn.

Grask’s heart beat wildly and he looked around frantically. What should he do? Somebody must do something! But he was alone - where were the females? Help – he needed help! They needed help!

Suddenly Ishkur’s words to him thudded strongly in his mind: “Someday I may need you to guard my back." Without any thought of what he was doing, Grask hurled himself from the brush, a war cry of utter anguish sounding from his mouth. He fumbled one of his long knives from his belt as he ran, then held it point first in front of him. He had to stop them. Ishkur was depending on him.

08-30-2007, 01:13 PM	#1
Durelin Estelo dagnir, Melo ring Join Date: Oct 2002 Posts: 3,063	Execution Hardly to Khamir’s surprise, various members of Elessar’s envoy voiced complaints regarding the decision, but it was done and even they knew it. He, Shae, and other familiar faces marched dutifully to the pit, some seeming more eager than others. Khamir avoided looking at Shae perhaps so she would not see the confusion in his eyes and take it as a sign of weakness. The silent consensus among the volunteer executioners seemed to be that the deed would not be done in the pit, but rather a little ways outside their camp. If they moved the living bodies away from where they would sleep, there would be no need to drag the corpses very far. It would all be very logical, very practical from here on out. The sensibility of the plan was obvious to Khamir, but he could not completely ignore a feeling that he was going through the motions of some ritual. His knife felt particularly heavy in his hand. But the Orcs were not prepared to have their throats slit as simple prisoners. Something did not feel right about the apparent resigned nature of the orcs to their fate, and then Khamir noticed...ropes? “Look down there, at the low end of the bars!” he shouted with great urgency, and Shae, Qat, and Beloan were quick to follow his discovery to the same conclusion. “The orcs are on the loose! We need more men here!” Beloan cried, keeping his head and realizing that they needed more than one man to each Orc to manage them now they were free and desperate to save their lives or bring down as many men with them as possible. Khamir’s own desperation drove him far more than his anger or loathing. The fight ended with the Orcs recaptured and some of them much worse for wear. Even Khamir agreed with Beloan when he spoke of dignity when he saw what shape Makdush was in at the hands of the former slaves. Surely many of them had seen men and women brutalized in such a way at the hands of Orcs - though also likely at the hands of certain men - but…that was what Orcs did. Beginning to feel he was getting too close to agreeing with Aiwendil, Khamir fell back into focusing on the recaptured Orcs and the knife in his hand. Weapons drawn and held close to the victims, the Orcs were led away, the men and women who were not their executioners still standing by with their own knives, bows, slings, and spears at the ready. They all understood that any animal was most ferocious when it was cornered. The general quiet as the Orcs were marched a short distance from the camp made the situation darkly awkward. The heat in the air from the passion and anger of the debaters had dissipated, cooled to a chill. Nothing seemed to be fueling the ceremony: no hatred, anger, or fear; and no spark to light them. A number of people followed the party, but very few threw out the rare jeer or justification, and even fewer paid them any mind. Sweating, aching, light-headed, heavy…oh yes, Khamir remembered, that’s what it was…tired. They were all so tired, weren’t they? “Let’s get this over with,” he said, typically curt and gruff. Agreement was voiced among the spectators - or the guards, or the witnesses; whatever they might be called - as a final verdict not on the guilt but on the fitness of the punishment. Man liked lines and order, they liked having a system to things. So the Orcs were haphazardly lined up, then forced on their knees. The scowls, the snarls, and the snapping of the cornered animals were ignored, and instead each creature was given the privilege of a personal executioner. Man watched each other, learned from each other, copied each other. Once one or two held their knives at the throats, the rest followed suit. For a moment the Orcs were suspended just before the end as the Men waited for the word, the sign; and the first laceration of flesh; and perhaps even the last, vain effort of the captives to alter their fate. But none of it came. Last edited by Durelin; 02-19-2008 at 12:09 PM.

08-31-2007, 03:18 PM	#2
Firefoot Illusionary Holbytla Join Date: Dec 2003 Posts: 7,547	Grask had watched the entire proceeding with increasing anxiety. The subtleties of conversation had been over his head, but he had caught the drift: there were a few who wanted to let Ishkur and the others live, but most of them had voted for murder. He did not know why he had hoped at all; the stories were true, it seemed; Men were just as vicious as they reported Orcs to be. What would he do? Where would he go? His path had been bound up in those of these Orcs that were about to die. Their meeting broke up; the Men hauled up the Orc males from the pit none too gently. Grask strove to catch Ishkur’s eye in hopes of some guidance, but to no avail; Ishkur was not looking for him, and even if he was, Grask was too well hidden. The Orcs were marched out of the camp, and Grask, seeming to have no will of his own left, trailed behind as far as his cover extended. They were lined up; knives and swords were drawn. Grask’s heart beat wildly and he looked around frantically. What should he do? Somebody must do something! But he was alone - where were the females? Help – he needed help! They needed help! Suddenly Ishkur’s words to him thudded strongly in his mind: “Someday I may need you to guard my back." Without any thought of what he was doing, Grask hurled himself from the brush, a war cry of utter anguish sounding from his mouth. He fumbled one of his long knives from his belt as he ran, then held it point first in front of him. He had to stop them. Ishkur was depending on him.