Breelanders All! RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

Bandits: Letter from Laira to Soran

A messenger picked his way stealthily along the path that led towards the bandits' lair. The path was barely visible, with thick bracken and ferns covering much of the ground, and overhanging bushes crowding in; only an experienced eye could pick it out. The man had travelled for several hours and now halted on the outskirts of a hidden grove, giving the signal that they had agreed upon many weeks before: the sound of a fox baying, three separate tones interrupted by a pause of less than a minute. Several of the scouts glanced up surprised from their dinner with a look of hope written on their faces. The messenger leapt off his horse and walked over to the circle, stopping to take a whiff of the stew, but then continuing on. "A dispatch for Lotar from Weathertop. Where is he?"

"Still in his tent, I expect," one of the men responded, jerking his thumb towards the edge of camp, and then went on to voice the unspoken question in everyone's mind. "Anyone else lucky? Do you bring news to any of us?"

"Aye," he replied, digging deep in his vest pocket and pulling out a scrap of paper. "For you, Soran. From your sister" He held out the letter and pushed it in his direction, then retreated down the path to Lothar's tent. Soran's voice called after him, "Make sure to have some dinner with us before you leave..."

The farmer sat down and unfolded the tiny slip of vellum, his eyes skimming hastily over the note, devouring its contents:

My dearest brother,

I can not tell you how you are missed. With their father gone, Glenna cries to see her uncle Soran. Although Marach tries to put on a good face to show he is a man, I see the look in his eye and knows that he yearns for someone other than myself he can trust.

Food and trust.... Both are scarce. The children have become good at finding root vegetables in the hills. Otherwise, we would have starved. If only Marach was a bit older, he could go hunting with the older boys. Sometimes he tries but they shoo him back. Many of the very old and young are in desperate straits from hunger. I worry constantly about mama. And every night I dream of food: loaves of bread, chicken stew, the things we took for granted!

There is one thing that has kept us alive. Strangely enough, it is my ability to read and write. There are times when dispatches must be read and written, and I am one of the few left alive who can do that. So many of the leaders of the village were killed in the initial attack or on the path to Weathertop. I barter my skills for food and other necessities as best I can.

I hope this finds you well. I pray that you and the others have found things better near this place called Breeland. Perhaps, they will let us come and settle there and farm the land? Still, it is hard. There are so many of us. The fighting between villagers is constant; many go out and elude the armed patrols from Arthedain and accost travellers on the road, robbing them of their goods. I have not yet stooped to that, but if it comes to my children's lives, I will not hesitate.... I pray we may find another answer.

Your sister,

Laira