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

[piosenniel]

The RPG thread is HERE .

The Planning Thread is HERE .

[piosenniel]

The Discussion Thread is now open.


Everyone please wait until Durelin and Child of the 7th Age have checked into this thread BEFORE posting here.

Thanks!

~*~ Pio

[Durelin]

Thank you, Pio!

I suppose I can check in now.

I was trying to lurk around until this opened up...glad I managed to hang around here long enough.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Checking in.....

I guess other folk can post now.

[Folwren]

Can you guess? I've got something to beg of you.

Child, having heard that my internet time will be limited this summer somewhat, thought that I shouldn't take on a minor character. In fact, you pretty much ordered me not to. But I'd really, really, really like to take on a young boy. Can I? Please? If I'm doing bad and you don't think that I'm keeping up well enough and that I shouldn't be having him, I'll kill him off.

You see, there was a young chap on the baseball team that my dad and I coached this year who would make a really cool character, but he had problems, so the character would have to come from a place that would give him such problems. (Don't be alarmed, Pio, they're not evil or improper problems, if you catch my meaning.) And coming from a slave plantation would certainly do it to him. Will you consider it?

Concerning my main character - I wrote her bio up at work, but I'm at home right now, so I'll be able to post it tomorrow. I don't have a first post yet. I'll be talking with Tevildo a little before I write that, but I doubt it will be too long before I have the first post.

Thanks for your time! I'm looking forward to it!

-- Folwren

[piosenniel]

piosenniel's character


NAME: Rôg

AGE: around 42

RACE: Mannish

GENDER: Male

APPEARANCE: 5’6”; black hair; dark brown eyes; olive toned skin; softly muscled, lean frame; a little stooped when he does not remember to straighten his posture, from long hours spent hunched over scrolls and tomes in libraries, and over his own notebooks; a pleasant, though not memorable face; long, tapering fingers with well kept nails; an ink stain and thick callous on his right middle finger indicating where the quill is grasped. There is a small, flat, ovoid shaped gold stud in his upper left ear, nearly hidden where the top of ear folds over on itself like a sea shell.

Prefers loose clothing in dark, earthen tones, browns and blacks – breeches and tunics worn with boots if necessary in the north and western climes. Otherwise bare-footed. Dark brown hooded cape for protection against the elements. A number of large handkerchiefs are crammed in various pockets of the cape, most of them a yellow color.

Carries an ebony walking stick; small hand ax used for gathering fuel for fire; an over the shoulder leather pouch which, among other items, holds several leather bound notebooks and one small chapbook; a quill case; inkstone and blotter sand; at his belt he wears a small leather sheath with a small, sharp double edged knife – used mainly for sharpening quills or cutting up vegetables.

PERSONALITY: He has a pleasant temperament, and a dry sense of humor. Good listener, feels no desire to talk one’s ear off. A slow, methodical worker; does not like to feel ‘hurried’. He prefers to evaluate all sides of a problem before settling on an answer. In a dangerous situation, he would be more likely to take cover than fight. Though, as yet, nothing has pushed him to the point where his mettle might be tested.

Dependable, intelligent. Used to the wandering life. A whiz with a cooking pot and any edible vegetation and small game. Can start a fire under any conditions. He is a man of many useful talents.

HISTORY: Born in TA 2999. For five years his home was in the wide, broad valley bounded by the lower limb of the Orocarni, the Mountains of the East; the dense forest on their west and east; and the arid steppe that pushed its way south and east, descending to the shores of the seas. His family were members of a small nomadic tribe who wandered this sparsely populated area, trading with other tribes in the vicinity, often venturing as far West as the outskirt cities of Rhûn. His father made the small, serviceable axes of the sort that graced his own belt. His mother wove colorful baskets, useful for many things in the peoples of that region’s daily lives, and useful, too, her larger ones, for burial.

He and his older sister, two years his senior, enjoyed a fairly carefree life during this time. Though sometimes he and she were pressed into service for gathering the fibrous materials for baskets, or pumping the bellows when their father was at work on the ax heads, for the most part, they were free to roam. And best they loved the forests with their scrubby, green needled trees, roots gripped firm on the rocky ground. . . and the wildlife, the abundant and most intriguing wildlife. Encouraged by their parents, they both grew up with a great respect for the creatures that shared their lives . . . and a healthy respect for the creatures’ ability to protect themselves.

Then the Shadow from the west lengthened. At first a hushed story told in whispers around the cooking fires by the elders, then encounters with peoples they had previously traded with who now claimed some sort of allegiance to a great Lord in a far western place called Mordor. The elders and parents seemed secretive to a youngster of five, but his own reassured him and his sister that there was nothing to worry about. Nonetheless, in the following months they began a slow migration southward, hugging the coast of the Eastern Sea and then the Inner Sea. Past the places of half remembered stories from before the time of men.

When he was about ten years old, the elders made the decision that they had come to a place they felt safe enough to settle in. This new area lay in a semi-arid region between the Great Dark Forests of the South and the coast of the Inner Sea. And it was here that he spent the next fifteen years of his life. The letters and numbers he had learned at his mother’s knee now proved useful to his family and tribe – increased contact with other wandering tribes meant increased trade, and he had the talent to keep the tallies.

At twenty-five, he traded for his first scroll, paying the traveling merchant extra for a quick lesson on how to read the peculiar script. It was only a short, illustrated treatise on locating wells and digging them; an unexciting piece of literature, save for the fact it showed him how such a thing was done in some other part of the world. And when he learned, from the same fellow that there were buildings dedicated to the storage of manuscripts and scrolls, which were open for those so inclined to read and study in, he resolved to see them. His wishes came to fruition in the next few years, and with the blessings of his parents and his other tribe members he set off, wandering north and west, seeking to increase his knowledge.

~*~

He had long been interested in the study of small birds – their habitats, social structure, migratory patterns, feeding preferences, capacity to adapt and learn new skills. He felt a certain kinship to them, many of them wanderers like himself.

It was at the Library in Rivendell where he first met Aiwendil (Radagast), and fell to comparing notes with him concerning the sighting of a certain species of hummingbird seen recently in the last few years in the area of Rhudaur near the Hithaeglir, and then again between the eastern side of the mountains and Rhosgobel.

Hearing that Aiwendil was bound for the southern lands, Rôg offered to accompany him. He had been down there, he told the old fellow, for a space of time in his younger years. It would be a profitable journey for the both of them – Aiwendil would have the services of someone familiar with the country, and Rôg would have the benefit of Aiwendil’s vast knowledge of birds and his keen eye for observation. That and Rôg would have the opportunity to make contact with his tribe after such a long time away.

During their stay in Harad, Aiwendil and he had assisted some of the native peoples who wished to throw off the last vestiges of Sauron’s influence, and helped them secure their freedom from an oppressive tribal chieftain.


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piosenniel's post - Rôg


The young man, Gaerion, knocked firmly on the smooth wood door, then stepped back a pace, hearing the footsteps from within draw nearer. He looked about the little courtyard in which he stood. It was lush with flowers; many of them he knew were of the sort which attracted little birds. He smiled, knowing the one who lived here would be pleased that he had managed to recall this bit of information. Gaerion had delivered many messages here and never gotten away yet without some small lesson on this or that.

Rôg peeked through the small, barred peephole in the door, wondering who had come for a visit so early in the morning. Gaerion! Fresh faced, his black livery spotless, boots gleaming from the polishing he must have given them just this morning. His grey eyes were clear, and shone, it seemed to Rôg, with a spirit of hope and the expectation of a life open to possibility. It was a welcome sight to Rôg’s eyes. There had been too many years, he thought, when hope lay under shadow and possibility was thwarted by despair.

‘Come in, come in!’ He opened the door wide and ushered Gaerion in, pointing towards the small table near the window where he’d just sat down to eat his morning meal. ‘There’s plenty,’ Rôg said, motioning to an empty chair as he sat back down in his own. ‘Fruit, cheese….and here, let me pour you a cup of wine. It’s from the south. Very light, very refreshing.’

‘What’s this?’ He took the slender roll of parchment from Gaerion, exchanging it for the basket of thick sliced bread he’d passed the young man. Rôg untied the thin ribbon and unrolled the parchment. His eyes scanned the writing; he smiled as he read the signature written boldly at the bottom. ‘From the King,’ Rôg said.

Gaerion nodded as he stuffed a fig into his mouth. He bit back a grin at the obviousness of this conclusion. A swig of wine followed, a delighted smile affirming the young man’s pleased approval. ‘Delivered one to the old fellow too.’ He looked chagrined as Rôg raised a brow at him. ‘Aiwendil, then,’ he said, making an apology of sorts. ‘The Elf fellow was there, too.’ Gaerion took another sip of wine. He supposed he should be discreet; the King’s man had not made mention of what the messages said, only that the King wanted them delivered as quickly as possible. But, he was young and curious, and so he asked Rôg outright what the King had written.

‘It’s about the land across the river. Mordor. The King has received a request for aid from some of those who live there. He’s sending a group of us to look into it and give them assistance.’ Rôg took a small cluster of fat red grapes and plucked one off. ‘Though I wonder what he thinks I can do.’ He popped the grape into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘Most likely he wants me to keep the old fellow out of trouble.’ Rôg grinned at Gaerion who’d raised his brows in mock remonstrance of calling Aiwendil ‘the old fellow’.

Breakfast done, the farewells made, and Rôg returned to his chair to peruse the King’s letter again. In a hastily scrawled note at the bottom of the page, Elessar had mentioned men of the East, slaves at one time in the Dark Land, were among those who had asked for assistance. And would Rôg, in addition to using his knowledge of wells, and irrigation systems, be sure to look to any special needs that those of his homeland might have. He frowned; the thought of any of his clan or kind, under the will and whips of the Dark Lord, and after him his as-cruel minions made him shudder despite the increasing warmth of the day.

It took very little time for him to pack. Other than a change of clothes and his pens and notebooks, Rôg had few essentials he couldn’t live without. He thrust his hand axe through his belt, to which he’d also secured his knife. Last of all was his walking stick; once in his hand he strode out the door of his little apartment and closed it securely. Gaerion had agreed to look after the little place while he was gone.

In a few moments he was at Aiwendil’s rooms, entering the door without a knock. The old fellow was bent over a book of maps his finger tracing the way for the Elf who stood at his side.

‘Well, I’m ready!’ he looked from one to the other of them as he banged his stick on the stone floor. His gaze settled on Aiwendil. ‘Just promise me this trip will involve no travel by water….that’s all I ask.’

[Undómë]

Looks to be a great game! I'm very much looking forward to playing in it.

Here are my two Orc sisters. Will work on the post for them, and on the bio for the minor Mordor character soon.

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Undómë’s characters:


NAMES: Zagra and Mazhg, sisters

AGE: around 36 or so

RACE: Orc

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: Zagra has a thick wooden club – part of a stout oak stave that once held a lance. Mazhg carries a spade she stole from one of the fields; she keeps the edges of the metal shovel sharp with a flint rock she has stashed in a battered leather pouch hanging from her shoulder. Both are strong, and fight like cats when they are cornered -- with nails and teeth and feet.

APPEARANCE: about 4’ 10”; darkish skin made darker by layers of dirt; dark eyed short; spiky black hair matted with filth; stocky, thick bodied, well muscled. Ragged, rough cloth shifts, stained and torn. Frayed, tattered blankets of some indiscriminate grey colored wool serve as cloaks. Barefooted.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Despite her hard life, Mazhg is a bright woman, very wily, extremely suspicious, cautious around other people. Especially around males, whom she despises for the most part. She is fiercely protective of her sister. Zagra is what one might call a little ‘simple-minded’. Her mind tends to drift; she is not as wary of situations and people as is her sister. Mazhg keeps Zagra close to her, and will kill and has killed any who touch her or try to hurt her.

HISTORY: Zagra and Mazhg had just turned about 15 years old in 3019 III Age. The woman who gave birth to them died at their birth as had their triplet sister. They were raised on one of Mordor’s breeding farms. They worked hard in the fields from a young age; took care of the babies and littler children as they got older. That year, their fifteenth, they would have gone into the breeding sheds to become part of the great propagation program designed to supply Mordor with a continuous source of Orc warriors, workers, and breeders.

When Sauron fell and Mordor was made free by the King’s decree, Mazhg and Zagra joined in with a large band of Orcs who were staking out their claim to a part of Nurn for themselves. Now the Easterlings who were part of Mordor’s slave base were trying to eliminate the Orcs. There was to be a big battle between the two groups. Mazhg had decided this battle would not be to her and Zagra’s benefit; they would most likely be killed she thought. She and her sister had joined in with those Orcs who were fleeing from the main group to find a safer place to live.


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Undómë's post - Zagra & Mazhg


‘Scared . . . big scared.’ Zagra’s voice, hushed and strained already, trailed off into silence. She leaned against Mazhg as her sister chopped at their shifts. Mazhg was shortening them with a knife she’d stolen from the cook shed, making them into what she hoped would pass for boys’ tunics.

‘I know you’re scared,’ Mazhg, whispered back, nuzzling Zagra’s cheek with her nose. I’m scared too! she thought to herself, though to her sister she spoke in an assured tone. ‘Things will be alright. You just stick to me . . .,’ she said, smiling at Zagra.

‘. . . like a pink tail on a rat!’ Zagra finished. She scooted around so that she could lean her back against her sister’s. ‘Tell me . . . tell me again, Mazhg. What we doing under old white face t’night.’

Though she’d heard it already several times, Zagra’s eyes went wide as Mazhg retold her story of stealing two pairs of breeches, each from two different sides of the camp. And how she’d managed to slip into the cook tent and the storage tent near it – to take a knife from the one, and dried meat and travel-bread from the other.

What Mazhg hadn’t made part of the adventurous tale was how one of the Uruk who was hanging about had spied her crawling out from under the back of the tent. And how he’d hit her hard with his club on the small of her back. The blow had sent her flying. She’d barely scrambled to her feet before he got to her. By some stroke of luck or his own laziness, he’d elected to hurl insults at her retreating form, rather than expend the energy to run her down. She expected he was most likely drunk. Quite drunk, from the smell of fermented mash spirits that hung in a thick cloud about him.

Many of the men were drinking. Getting up their courage for the coming battle against the Easterlings. In the distance, on the other side of the camp, she could see many little fires dotting the plain, and the shadowy forms of Orc men, big and small, wavering in the garish light. Drums, too. They beat loud and louder as the night progressed. A booming heartbeat, strong and mighty; savage it was meant to seem . . . to make the Easterlings’ blood run cold with fear.

Mazhg snickered. She was in no way fond of the Easterlings. But she hoped their knives were sharp and would slit the throat of every man-Orc. She brought her attention back to her sister.

‘Once we’re dressed like I told you, we’re going to sneak off on an adventure. Me and you. To a place where we’ll be safe. Together.’

‘Try this on, Zagra,’ she said, handing one of the shortened shifts to her sister. ‘Let it hang loose about you.’ Mazhg pulled her own on hastily, modeling it for Zagra. ‘Like this.’ She nodded in approval as Zagra stood before her. ‘Come here, now. Let’s put this pouch over your head.’ Mazhg flattened the leather strap that held the rough made pouch across Zagra’s chest. ‘This has a little skin of water in it, some meat and some bread. Now throw your blanket over your shoulders . . . like the boys do.’ Mazhg reached for the ends of the blanket scrap and tied them in a loose knot so that material fell about her sister’s form like a little cape. She handed Zagra her stick, telling her to hold tight to it.

Mazhg quickly got herself ready to go, tucking the knife into a raggedy sort of sash she’d tied about her middle. She picked up her spade, checking one last time in her own pouch for the sharpening stone.
With a quick smile of assurance, Mazhg took her sister’s hand firmly in her own and let her eyes dart about the nearly empty northern part of the camp she’d staked out as their little place. Most of the others who bedded down in that area were at the fires in the southern part of the camp.

The moon was bright on the eastern horizon. Fat and bulbous like some great swollen spider, it hung in the dark sky. Its light ate the little lights of the stars, swallowing whole it seemed those ones that had the ill luck to be near its web.

Hunched over, skittering like dark little bugs from one pool of shadow to another, the two sisters headed west. They hurried as fast as their legs would take them; away from the madness of the coming battle and toward the meeting place the loosely organised group of rebels had agreed on . . .


_________________________



Undómë’s minor character – Granny Brenna

NAME: Brenna (slave escapee), aka ‘Granny Brenna’ or just plain ‘Gran’

AGE: 51

RACE: Men

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: Her planting stick; small hand scythe for harvesting grain – hangs from her belt by a leather cord; small sling and pouch of rocks for bringing down small animals.

APPEARANCE: 5’1”; thin, wiry. Once raven black hair now streaked heavily with grey, worn in a thick braid down her back, or in a bun at the nape of her neck. Dark brown eyes. Tanned complexion from work in the fields. Wrinkles. Keeps her tunic and long skirt as neat and clean as she is able. Piece of rope serves as a belt for the skirt. Pair of hand cobbled sandals of leather. Raggedy square of dark woven material she uses as a shawl

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Knows how to keep her nose out of trouble; minds her own business as she can. A kindly, no-nonsense sort of woman with a helping hand for those who need it. She is a story-teller and has been known to sing on occasion when the hard cider jug is passed her way.

HISTORY: Taken at the age of eleven, with her family, from their little farm in the eastern reaches of North Ithilien. Father and mother are now deceased. She hasn’t seen her two older brothers, Bran and Nevan, in twenty years - since they were sent to another plantation on the southern edges of Nurn.

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[b]Carry alongs:

1.) Gwenith (Gwenni) - girl @ 11y/o; long, light blonde hair
2.) Nia - young woman @ 16 y/o; shoulder length dk. brown hair

[piosenniel]

*shakes the dust off this thread . . . hack . . . cough

Shall I move the game to Elvenhome . . . labeling it as Part 1?

I'll remove Nogrod's Save if that's alright with him.

[Durelin]

Certainly...as Part 1 or not!

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~