Outracing the Flames RPG

[Farael]

Osmod and Fion were talking quite animatedly as they approached the village. In spite of what Fion seemed to think, Osmod was quite interested on how to deal with geese rather than cows.

”You think your job is bad, my friend? Maybe when we come back we should spend some time at each other’s farm. I wouldn’t mind dealing with an animal I can actually prod into listening to me. Have you ever tried moving a cow when her heart is set on staying in place? Not to mention when her feet get trapped in the muddy bank of a river. Ha! No, Fion I much rather hear the Chronicles of Fion and his Amazing Poultry than reciting my long list of Cowly-mishaps.”

With a chuckle he looked ahead, at the quickly approaching town. Something did not seem right and at first he could put his finger on what it was. Everything seemed so quiet, so empty. He noticed Sythric was calling him over and at last he realized. The town was empty.

Following the old rider’s advice, Osmod led the group towards the centre of the abandoned town. Houses gaped with wide open doors to those riders who dared disturb their slumber. Here and there the things that had been left behind served as painful reminders of the people that had not so long ago walked those same streets.

They got to the central square and Osmod called for a halt. He could see his own thoughts reflected on everyone’s faces. Sythric seemed to be the most affected of them all and so Osmod felt it was his duty to say the words that needed to be said.

“This is a most painful reminder of what we are facing, my friends. I am not a born speaker any more than I am a born leader, but I think we will all agree of our need to make haste from this moment on.” He looked at the sun and guessed the time to be slightly past mid-day. ”By this time, Bregoware looks like this town. Our family and friends are following the way we have been taking and by now I would risk to say they have reached where we stopped for lunch yesterday. They are moving much more slowly than us and every day we spend riding takes us further away from them. I can understand why any of you may want to turn back and join those they care about. I will not stop you. But I will tell you that from now on we will need each and every one of us to carry out our task.”

Osmod took time to look into everyone’s eyes, both asking them to follow him across the river and trying to assure them that he would not oppose them should they decide to turn back. Maybe he was trying to do too much.

[Arry]

Wulfham

The Dark Lord . . . now there was a name to conjure his worst childhood fears. There were dark tales of this monster who dwelt in the land of shadows to the south and east. Across from Minas Tirith, it was said . . . with only the width of the River to stand between them. Even now, as he was a grown man, he could feel a cold chill race up his back and his knees tremble at the fabled demon now made real by Dorran’s words.

Brand clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder both to assure Dorran as he could and to reassure himself by with the feel of a friend’s real presence beneath his hand. He wondered at how Dorran had known the name of the dead Orc, or even that there were plantations in the shadowed land. And the mountain, what was that the he spoke of? Brand had never been more than twenty leagues from his village. Where had Dorran come from that he had seen such wretched and vile things?

He moved his hand then to take shield Dorran had thrust at him. It was ordinary enough in construction, but the very thought that some foul Orc had set it on his arm as he killed the people of the village with his sword or club made him cringe. He dropped the wicked-made thing, watching it as it tumbled to the ground and lay there face up. His eyes traced the insignia upon it . . . the crudely drawn red eye mocked him, and his stomach turned as he thought perhaps it had been painted in blood.

‘It is a filthy thing, Dorran,’ Brand said with a shudder. ‘And I would leave it here, save we should take it as a sign to show the King that the Dark Lord has already pushed this far into our fair land.’ Saying that, he picked up the shield and wrapping it in the singed cloak of a dead townsman, secured it to the back of Lady’s saddle.

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

The little group did break into two parties. Incana and Dorran went to search the western half of the village, while Vaenosa and Brand would make their sweep through the eastern half. Brand had seen the dog come walking up behind his horse and look about, its nose sniffing the air, then head toward Incana as if he’d found a long lost friend. It was a moment of ordinary pleasure to see the animal and he thought of his own dog, Patch, whom he’d had to leave behind.

‘He seems to like you,’ he said, smiling toward Incana. She told him the story of finding the dog and in the end it was decided that the hound should go with Incana and Dorran. ‘He’ll be an extra set of eyes and ears, and a good nose for you,’ Brand had said. ‘If he gets too tired or you have to ride, just let him ride astraddle the saddle. I often do that with my own dog when we’ve far to ride.’

‘Vaenosa, let’s you and I ride out to that small cluster of cottages to the southeast . . . the ones just outside the village wall. I’m hoping to find us a spare horse or so . . . and when the raiders passed through, the animals might have gone back to a part of the village that had been hit early and then abandoned by the attackers.

When they got there, it was a small enough area that they could go their separate ways to search and still be in hailing distance of each other. Some of the cottages had been burned, but it looked as if the job had been a hastily done, and there were still a few of the thatched roof dwellings intact.

The dead were not quite as numerous here, and Brand wondered if they had gone into the village center as the attack began, thinking that they would be safer there. A few chickens wandered about the cottages, picking in the dirt; they kept their wary eyes on the two new intruders.

Brand watched as Vaenosa and nay made their way to the opposite side of this small living area. He could see her begin her search through the makeshift lean-to’s that were their stabling areas and through some of the huts still standing. He began to do the same.

As far as he could tell there was no one left alive in this little part of the village. He’d found a bag of oats . . . it would be good for the horses and for him and his companions, too. One ham had been left undisturbed in another hut’s little smoke house. He poked about a few more cottages, then stood out in the open and called to Vaenosa . . . just keeping contact with her so they both might know each other was alright.

In the side yard of the last little cottage he came to, he was surprised to find a garden of late autumn vegetables mostly undisturbed save that it looked as if a single Orc had walked or run heavily though the middle of it in haste . . . the last of the potatoes were still there, kept warm in the ground by small hillocks of straw, and a few neat rows of kale, leeks, and cauliflowers beckoned. There was also a smaller herb garden planted close to the house. Brand recognized only a few – some that his mother used in cooking; some that she used for her salves and potions when someone took ill. But there were others he had no idea if they were edible or poison. He decided to gather only the ones he knew about from his mother’s own garden.

The door to the cottage was open. Brand peeked into the shadowy interior, his ears wide open for any sound; his eyes darting about the ill lit room. It looked quite empty. And there, neatly folded and stacked on a stool just across the room were a number of canvas bags. Brand made his way toward them, intending to use them to carry what vegetables he could harvest . . .

[Undómë]

Bregoware

Meghan


Meghan’s fingers ached from the hard, frightened grip she had taken on the reins. They were cold, too; the blood had left them as it had left her face when they entered the empty village. Arnanaes . . . that is how Sythric had named this town. She rolled the sound of it about on her tongue. She had heard of it, but never come here.

It was much like her own little hamlet. There was the Lord’s mead hall . . . there the forge, now gone cold, where the smith had worked. And little cottages, many of them, dotting the brown grassy plain. Their windows, unshuttered, were like blind eyes staring blankly ahead. For a moment the thought, like dead eyes, had crossed her mind in reference to them. But she pushed it away, not willing to give up hope as yet. The village still stood whole. There were no burnt down dwellings, no dead bodies, as she had heard whispered among those of her townsmen. Other places more outlying than Wulfham had been burned, all slaughtered, destroyed. Rick, cot, and fold! Everything . . .

She kept a little hope in her heart, banking it well against the day this great and awful thing that was beginning would be somehow be ended. That these soulless cottages would once again house life.

And now she was glad that she had kept to her word, and gone on with the others. Her little part for Wulfham and those she loved would be done as best she could. She felt, though, like some small little reed, bent low by a rushing wind . . . and behind that wind would come a fire of such hellish fury she did not know if she would rise to see another welcoming Spring

Meghan turned her gaze to the path directly in front of her; she nodded her head at Osmod’s words, giving her silent consent that she would follow. Kicking her heels lightly into Ash’s flanks, she urged the little mare forward.

‘Rædy!’ she called, coming up along side the man’s horse . . .


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Rædwald


‘Aye, lass, ‘tis a grim site. I knew a number of those who lived here.’ Rædwald sighed. He was glad, though, that she had resolved whatever was in her mind and was riding with them again.

He was about to tell her something of the fellow from whom he’d bought his first billy-goat, when she pulled up quite near and whispered something low to him. She had composed her face so that none might note her discomfort, but the trembling touch of her hand on his arm and the flash of concern in her eyes made him understand the gravity of her request.

‘Of course! Of course! I’ll stick like honey to the comb to you.’ He patted her reassuringly on her hand. ‘Naught will happen and the river will be crossed without a splutter.’ He smiled and eased her into other areas of conversation.

She couldn’t swim . . . he eyed her small frame as they rode through the town. Ah well, he was as easy with water as any fish and more than twice her size. He would see her safely across . . .

[Nogrod]

Bregoware

"I can understand why any of you may want to turn back and join those they care about. I will not stop you. But I will tell you that from now on we will need each and every one of us to carry out our task.”

Osmod's words sounded in Sythrics mind. He totally agreed with him. “Seeing all this, kind of leaves us no options. Our mission seems all the more urgent now. At least some of us have to continue.” Sythric glanced at everyone, with serious look. “I will be one of them, and follow you Osmod, whatever it takes.” He added, and then made Thydrë back up some steps. “The ferry is down there, behind the townhall. I suggest we get there and have some lunch, before crossing the river. I sure wouldn’t like to eat in the middle of this hollow town and all the awe it arouses in me.”

Sythric’s mind got agitated. All the towns he knew at this side of the river: Brechast, Hrunting, Scefing... All those sharing this same ill fate! It was just too much. How he had wandered at the streets of them as a young man, drinking ale with his friends, gotten an eye over a nice girl and all. That had been life. All that lost now! Like he could never get his youth back, he would never even get back those places of his youth. Heorogar’s tavern in Hrunting would be no more, no more than a cold and empty shelf, sheltering only wild dogs and other beasts of the wild. Just wind calling in every now and then. Or Daeghrefn’s inn at Scefing. Just memories, just memories now, with nothing to bring them alive again. And no-one to live those lives and those places anymore. Lost all, totally lost. Sythric was looking into a void. And all the people making for shelter that no-one knew, where it would be, the caravans of refugees as easy pray for any army big enough. Sythric turned away from the others to not show his tears bursting out violently.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

A hint of a breath escaped sharply from between Eostre's teeth. Empty. Of course it was. Abandoned in the fear of the burning coming from beyond, abandoned in the whispered hope that somewhere there might be refuge. Refuge? In Rohan-proper? They were at war!

Who isn't? her mind whispered. Even beyond swords and things some might call sourcery... at war with emotions. Battling words.

She closed her eyes for a moment as they passed into the town, empty shells of buildings surrounding them, the gaping windows eyes staring into their souls. It was intense; painful, such a loss to see that it tightened her breath. A door slammed shut in the bits of wind, the tinkling of some chimes somewhere.

And the ever echoing clatter of their horse's hooves against cobblestones that may never again be touched by human feet. Eostre glanced back at Meghan for a moment; the girl had made it back to the party before they had entered the town. She looked so pale...

And Fionn, just as silent as the rest...

At least some of us will have to continue. She frowned, and her face stayed that way, as if pressed into the expression. Her mother had always told her if she scowled too much, her face would remain pasted into that position. Had her mother spoken of this little village as well? That if it stayed unaware, it would stay that way, all the people fled and leaving it to frown? Leaving it as a ghost?

[Nogrod]

Osmod led them to the river. Sythric stayed somewhere among the last one's, trying to hide his feelings. But then they all saw the situation. There was the rafter’s house, the boathouse, and the quay, where the ferry would be. There were a couple of sheds and a swing that had seen it’s best days long time ago.The swing particularly, gave rise to some more eerie feelings, thinking about the laughter and joy of the children swinging in it, now totally absent. Childrens’ voices echoed around the place as grim reminders of the state of the affairs.

But the ferry was not there! Looking at the other side of the river, they saw it. People had evacuated, leaving the ferry to the west bank of the river! The river was about 100 yards wide on the spot and the currents were a bit milder – that was the reason why the ferry had been built just here in the first place. But surely it would take quite an effort for anyone to swim over – horses anyhow probably couldn’t do it without drifting unforeseen mileages south. There was no sign of the ropes either, the ropes with which you could pull the ferry over. The wheels by which this had been done, lay idly by the quay, stripped naked of the ropes. And getting the ferry going without the ropes, would take at least three people: two for the “oars” and one for steering towards upriver – and thence balancing the currents.

“This is most unwelcome news, I must say.” Said Sythric, breaking the silence to which everyone had fallen. “Although it’s quite natural. No-one would leave a usable ferry to this side of the river, to be destroyed by a random orc-party. And when the next villages and towns reach this spot, they will have able-bodied and stern men enough to swim over, and get the ferry back here – even without the ropes. We surely can’t blame people of this town for being careful with the ferry. But now we are in trouble.”

[Tevildo]

Leod pressed his body flat against the rugged wall of the root cellar, shrinking back into the shadows. He had opened the outer door a scant inch or two in a fruitless attempt to hear what was going on above. So far, the strangers invading his house had not found their way down to his cellar. Leod was not surprised. The entrance to the underground chamber was so cleverly concealed that very few of his neighbors knew of its existence. He had used the room for many years, mixing and testing his herbal potions. Whatever their other advantages, the Orcs were rather short on brains and had been completely unaware that he had found refuge just a few feet underneath the cottage floor. He had huddled low in the darkness, silent and shaking in fear, as the mob had trampled through the village, burning and killing.

Since that terrible moment, Leod had remained hidden within his underground sanctuary, emerging only to snatch a few supplies and crawl back inside. He had finally decided it might be safe to go outside and see if there was anyone else alive. But just when he'd made that decision, a new party of invaders had fallen upon his house. Leod inched forward out of the cellar to get a closer look at the thieves. At least, they were not Orcs. Even so, they seemed to be human ruffians of the worst sort. One was pillaging through the sacks he'd placed on one of the chairs. Worst of all, they'd begun to steal herbs and fruits out of his garden. How dare they? That garden was more dear to him than anything he possessed. The village depended on his potions. Some of the herbs were extremely rare, useful in the treatment of many ailments.

Leod watched with growing anger as the man pillaged through the canvas sacks. He would not take it any more. Picking up the only thing that might serve as a weapon, Leod waited for the woman to go out the door, rhen rushed forward and, with a mighty heave, lunged towards Brand, grazing the side of his head with the shovel.

[Folwren]

Wulfham


Smoke. . .there was so much smoke. . .and ashes. Every gust, every breath of wind, caused whole handfuls of ash to swirl up in the air. Nothing was left of her home. Nothing, except for the ruined, stone fireplace against which Athwen cowered. One hand covered her mouth, the other arm wrapped about her head. Her tears were spent, and her eyes burned because of it.

Why? She couldn’t stop the question from turning over and over again in her head any more than she could answer it. They hadn’t caused any trouble, they hadn’t done anything wrong. They were a peace living people without an evil thought to share among them, why this? Couldn’t it have been somewhere else? And why had she been spared? She should have been home with her mother, she should have been baking the evening bread, but no! She had gone out to ride, and she had ridden a long way and come back oh, far too late.

A choked cry escaped from her mouth and she shut her eyes and drew her knees more tightly against her chest, trembling at the sound. Why? She didn’t know. Maybe the dead would hear her.

How long she sat thus, crouched beside the ruined fireplace, Athwen didn’t know. Time passed unnoticed, but seeming to take an eternity. The dead corpses of her family, and everyone she had known her entire life were strewn about the ground, some near, many others farther away, all lying amid the burned and smoking ruin of their homes, some untouched by fire, others half burned. She dared not lift her eyes. Not until a sound pierced the unnatural stillness. . .

Athwen’s eyes slowly opened, and then her arm, aching with having been clamped so long and so hard about her head, slowly relaxed and lowered. Her other hand dropped and she lifted her head; slowly, slowly - afraid to move, afraid to be seen. Upward by degrees, she raised her eyes and looked. A short distance away, two horsemen were walked carefully through the burnt ruins of the houses and buildings. She could not see their faces clearly, her eyes were bleary and weak, but she could make out the familiar form of horse and rider. They rode slowly towards her, down what used to be the main road through the village. Athwen forced her legs to move and she slowly and achingly stood up. Her hand shot outwards towards the fireplace to help support herself and a loose stone fell with a clatter.

A thought of caution flashed through her mind. Had they heard that? Would they hurt her, or help? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, really. Her hand dropped away from her support and she looked up again towards them. Yes, one of them had caught sound of the falling stone, and now they both turned their horse’s heads towards her. Her clear blue eyes watched them, and she waited in silence, neither worried nor anxious for them to finally stop and address her.

[Folwren]

Wulfham

To Edoras! To see the King? On normal occasions such words would spark a wild excitement in Athwen, but this time the words didn’t ring so much as they used to. But, still, he was asking her to go.

‘We’d be glad of your company, wouldn’t we? Come along, won’t you mistress. . .’ He trailed off and inside she felt half inclined to smile. She had neglected to give them her name.

‘Athwen. And don’t call me mistress, or ma’am, for that matter.’ Half heartedly, she smiled, thanking him for the kindness offered by his simple address. ‘I don’t deserve either, nor to be asked to accompany you. Leod is going?’ She turned and looked at the elderly healer. He nodded. She turned back to Brand and then looked at his companions. Finally, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin a little higher. By far the shortest of the group, she figured the thought had entered most of their heads that she wouldn’t be an excellent rider, and would likely hold them up, and whatever else if she accepted Brand’s quick offer. It wasn’t a ridiculous assumption, really, but she promised herself she would be able to show them otherwise.

‘I will accept your invitation,’ she said to Brand, setting her eyes on him again. ‘There is nothing left for me here-’ her breath caught momentarily, but she continued again almost immediately, though her eyes dropped away to the ground. ‘They were all killed. And though I would like to stay and hope for those words to be proved wrong, I can’t. I’ve looked and I’ve found them all. . .’ Her heart began to beat harder and faster and the panic that had first assailed her when she saw the destruction began to come back. She looked up imploringly at Brand, hoping that, maybe, he, or someone, might understand just a little. She took one step back, grasped for control over her feelings, and merely said in finishing, ‘I will come.’