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

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Hadith was walking as an advanced guard as the plains transformed suddenly to a sparse thicket and then a forest appeared from nowhere. He took his long-knife and continued, hacking the vegetation down as he proceeded, even as others were calling him to come back in fear. Someone would have to do this and I will surely show them that I can brave it! The wood thickened with every step and the air grew damper. He was sweating. It was getting darker too, even though it was still daylight hours. But then in a flash, he was in the middle of the night, armed with just his self-made knife that was no good at all. He heard his heart bumbing ever faster. There was a howl of the wolves, loud and clear! They were coming towards him from a wide sector from before him. He didn’t know where to focus his attention as they seemed to come from both left and right and from straight ahead...

“Beloan!” he called the older man to his help in his sleep with all his might, just to realise that a great hound leapt over him and that he had become entangled with his blanket. He was more than awake now. The dogs were rushing over them, one was gripping a young girl from her side with its teeth just a few yards away from him. The girl yelled in pain. He managed to free himself from the sweaty blanket and tried to disentangle the cords of his long-knife, but as it was dark and he was nervous, it took its time. Meanwhile he heard the girl’s initial yell dying into a merely quiet moaning with occasional shrieks. How frustrated can you get!? Everything seemed to be on the move around him: shouts, cries, rushing footsteps...

And then came the riders. He could hear the earth responding to the hooves of the horses, shaking it under his butt. Blasted cords!

In the end he managed to release his blade and to stand up. A rider was just coming towards him with his sword ready for any target of opportunity. Without thinking, by pure instinct, Hadith docked down and evaded the rider unharmed. A long-knife against a swordsman on a horse. He had done well to yield. Now where is the girl who yelled? he thought to himself as he crawled up. He immediately noticed where. Her body lied motionless just three feet from him and the great easterling hound was looking at him, it’s muzzle smeared in blood. It gazed him with its ears and tail put back. In a fraction of a second it was on him.

Hadith had had time to just lift the blade towards it to defend himself as the dog came over him with all it’s mass. Hadith felt a strike of claws on his left shoulder and right forehead but managed to control the pain. The dog’s fangs missed him. It howled in anguish. Something warm spluttered over him as the dog’s weight overpowered him and sent him falling to his back. He got some bruises to his thighs from the claws of the dying dog that tackled him and his back ached from the fall. Hadith fastly pushed the still trembling body of the hound away and ran over to see the girl. She was dead. Or so it seemed.

Dratted cords! He was breathing heavily and full of excitement, smeared in the dog’s blood, dripping his own to mix with it from his forehead and shoulder. But he was quite ready to go on, his wounds were not bad enough. It was just that there were no targets for him to reach at sight. The riders were creating havoc too far away and even the dogs had disappeared to the darkness of the night – even though their sudden barks made an indication where they were. They were too far away from Hadith. All was chaos, and blood kept dripping from his forehead into his eye. He tried to sweep it away but it always came back.

Then he heard the riders thundering back, the dogs coming in front of them with their heavy panting. The rumble of the hooves were as scary this time, but now Hadith had time to prepare himself for it. The dogs emerged first from the darkness to his field of vision. Not one coming straight to him but passing him by a couple of yards. But then he saw the rider. Fully clad in armour, a real soldier to Hadith’s eyes, and he was just coming towards him, noticing him. He's got a lance! A drop of blood blinded his right eye. Happily the easterling also noticed Hadith at the last possible moment.

Hadith just dived again, escaping just narrowly the tip of the lance. After he had rolled around on the ground to evade the spear, he got a whim he didn’t exactly know where it came. Hadith threw his blade to the easterling’s back as he passed him and the Easterling fell to the ground. Before he could come to his feet he saw other slaves coming from all around, from nowhere where they had been hiding, hacking the fallen Easterling with anything they got: clubs, pans, sticks...

One of them, Fewerth, claimed Hadith’s blade to himself as the Easterling was killed, but Hadith had been strong enough to rise up and meet the ring of slaves around the mutilated body of the Easterling. His shoulder and forehead were still running with blood, even more than before. Seeing his wounds, most of the other slaves withdrew, leaving Hadith and Fewerth looking each other in the eye over the body of the Easterling that had been clubbed into a cruel death. Hadith knew Fewerth well enough. He was a thirty something, some fifteen years older than he was; one of those who never took risks but were always ready to take advantages from the risks others had taken.

“Hadith, you little brat! What are you doing here? This is my blade! Get off here! I gave this foul mongrel the initial blow!” Fewerth called with a loud voice, trying to assure the others of his claim. Hadith tried to argue back but was losing blood too rapidly to counter his argument with any strengtht.

“No! That blade is mine, given to me by Khamir himself!” Hadith managed to answer before he fell down to his knees. Fewerth grasped the long-knife from the body and took it with him. Many of the other slaves rushed to help Hadith who was tumbling down, while a few others stood by trying not to involve themselves with the case at hand.

“You see! Who would give a weapon to a kid like that who can’t even stand blood? I killed this guy!” Fewerth bellowed before disappearing to the shadows of the overall disarray.

“That’s mine! He failed the tests! He’s lying!” Hadith managed to call before he almost passed out. Happily Khala and Cuáran were near enough. They helped the couple of other slaves to bind his wounds and managed to put Hadith in to an upright position, waking him up with some water to come conscious of the familiar voices. “Khala? Cuáran?” he came to his senses gradually again. “Fewerth took the blade that was given to me! I tried my best!”

“Cool down child, everything’s going to be put right” Khala said, not herself believing a part of what she said in the middle of the havoc they were into, trying to soothe the young boy. But the voices of the horses and the cries were getting more distant with every minute.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil walked over to the edge of the brook and, with great purposeful strides, splashed through the water to the other side where a large stretch of grass was slightly matted. Only a few days ago, sixty-five hungry and desperate people had crossed over at this exact point probably heading north. This is what the slaves had told Elessar in the letter, and from the look of the land, they had honored that promise.

Aiwendil partially blamed himself for the dillema they were in now. Too many times on the trek, he had asked Lindir to slow down and give him a chance to rest. Too many mornings he had been chasing after strange migratory birds only to delay the entire group from leaving for the day. If only he had not had his wooly head in the clouds, if only he'd done what he was supposed to do......

But "if onlys" did not correct their present situation. What made it even worse was what the slaves must now think of Ellessar and the free men of the West. Most of the slaves were from the south and east, but they had freely extended a hand, requesting help and seeking friendship. Only neither of those things had arrived on time.

What must the slaves have thought when the fellowship did not materialize? That the group from Gondor was late because it had encountered some troubles on the trail? Not likely, the wizard conceded with a sigh. With a trail of failed promises behind them, the slaves must have believed that they had been purposely deserted, like so many times before.

Aiwendil gave a shudder and groaned. This was just the kind of thing he had been hoping to avoid. Ever since his trip to Harad and the strange events he'd battled through with Rôg, the istar had sworn to pay closer attention to creatures in need, human as well as animal. He had promised to pay careful heed to what he was doing and not merely to count the days until Yavanna allowed him to return home. Most of all, he had sworn to try and remember the task that Manwe had laid on his head just before he'd left for Middle-earth. Aiwendil still couldn't remember exactly what that task was, but he was sure it had something to do with Mordor. And failing these slaves was not a good way to begin.

Aiwendil shuddered again as he remember the cold, cruel brand that he had held only a few moments before. He'd said nothing to the others, but the metal itself had practically burned his hand and almost caused him to wretch. He hated when such things were used on beasts. How much worse was it then to use a brand on a man? If the slaves were recaptured, that and even worse would shortly await them.

And it wasn't only the slaves who were calling out to him. It was the very earth itself: sterile and abused, even in the great agricultural plantations that ringed about the Sea. And how much worse the abuse of the land had been on the Ash Plains and the distant Plateau of Gorgoroth!

It was amazing that the slaves of Nurn could grow anything at all, given their miserable, destructive methods of farming. Land like this should be able to yield a bountiful supply of crops without requiring the labor of massive slave gangs. But the slaves continue to do as their masters ordered, and the land continued to fade. It was a horrible cycle that needed to be broken. What we really need, mused the wizard, is a whole army of hobbits to help restore life to the land.

Aiwendil's reflections were suddenly broken by the trill of a small bird who bobbed down on his shoulder and then came and perched on his fingertips. It was a warbler , the rare brave bird who thrives on scrub and in the vicinity of volcanos, a perfect resident for the land of Mordor. The bird tilted his head and began to speak with Aiwendil. The speaking came not in words but a series of images flitting across the wizard's mind. What he saw was appalling, much worse than the smallish slave band that Dorran had described. The istar spluttered out his thanks to the bird before releasing him back into the air.

Turning and sprinting back up the slope much faster than he'd come down before, Aiwendil halted abruptly in front of Lindir. Athwen and Carl were off looking for more signs of the slaves, but a number of the party were standing and talking with each other. Without waiting for an opening in the conversation, Aiwendil blurted out his news, "I've seen them, or rather the warbler has."

"Seen who? the slaves?," one voice demanded.

"No, no. Not the slaves," Aiwendil curtly replied. "The bounty hunters. There's twenty-five or thirty men armed to the hilt, excellent fighters all, gathered about thirty miles north of here. I don't know if they've found the slaves, but I do know they are out hunting for bodies that they intend to take back and peddle for gold. If they haven't found the slaves already, they'll surely be hunting for them tomorrow."

Aiwendil grabbed Lindir's soldier and shook it gently, stamping his staff on the ground for emphasis. "We can't make camp. We can't wait. As soon as Athwen and Carl finish going over the grounds to see if there are any more clues, we've got to mount up and ride through the night. We have to reach the slaves before that gang of thugs and miscreants do, or I fear there'll be no one left."

[Durelin]

Khamir

One slash to the man’s arm, just one – that was all Khamir had been able to manage before all of the attackers were gone, and he did not think slitting open a dog counted for much. Easterlings: almost as bad as Gondorians, and perhaps worse even than Orcs, in the Southron’s mind. He wished he had been able to do a lot more damage. Wiping droplets of blood off his blade into the grass, the man was reluctant to investigate the scene further. He didn’t want to know how many were injured or killed or…

“Gone! Gone!” a woman wailed, and Khamir’s heart sank even lower in his chest. It was far too heavy to hold up, now, so he gave in. It seemed only sensible that first priority be taking care of the wounded, and so he called out for those who he knew were at least adequate healers, even if their work was rough, having had to learn the hard way. He gave quick instructions that everyone was to search the camp for the injured or dead. Then he found the woman who had cried out. She knelt on the ground, and was unable to speak for several minutes, but Khamir waited patiently.

“The two children…the two beautiful children… Oh, they were so little! And they’re gone…”

“Dead?” Khamir asked, though he regretted it almost before the word fully escaped his lips. The women sobbed harder than before, and again he was forced to wait until she managed an “I don’t know,” clearly disturbed by the fact that she did not know where these children she had at least kept an eye on for the past couple months, if not more. It was unlikely that either was actually her child, but she cried and tore at herself as if they were the last things left that she loved, and most likely they were.

If two children were missing, that had been the attackers’ purpose. The Easterlings were after their bodies. They could make a fortune if they managed to recapture a good number of the fifty that so recently escaped, no to mention if they recaptured the entire group. The bounty for escaped slaves was normally as large as the master of the plantation could manage, which, from what Khamir had heard of this one, was probably quite a bit. There was no doubt in his mind that they would be back.

He rubbed his hand over his face, feeling at a complete loss. Luckily, the group was good at taking care of each other, and any divisions among it were lost in such an event. They all had been forced to live hard lives with strangers, and had to learn to keep each other alive somehow. Perhaps there was even a reason for slavery, if it was enough to break all such borders. Khamir gritted his teeth. He had to keep a calm head.

“Khamir!” came a sudden shout, and the one-armed man literally growled, not even bothering to turn to the sound. He heard heavy footsteps from someone running coming closer, and he doubted he would have to ask the person to say what he or she wanted to.

“Khamir! The blade you gave me has been taken! Fewerth took it!” Out of the corner of his eye, Khamir caught dark hair and brown skin, and easily connected to voice to a face: Hadith, the boy that Beloan had so much faith in. So the kid wasn’t even able to hold on to his knife? Fewerth…it took a minute for the Southron to recognize the name. Fewerth was closer to his own age, though the two had nothing else in common. He seemed mostly rotten, and apparently had not grown out of some childhood tendencies.

“I don’t have time for this, Hadith,” he said, turning to the boy and looking him in the eye for but one moment, just to make sure he understood that he was serious. The boy had been wounded, apparently, bandages wrapped around his head. But were they injuries out of bravery or foolishness?

Turning away from Hadith, Khamir went to locate his gang. All fourteen seemed pretty much unscathed, except for the occasional dog bite. He was not as concerned about them, though, as he wanted to make sure they were all prepared for long days and long nights ahead of them. They could not allow another attack like this. If the goal had been only to take a few, then the attack itself was merely a diversion, and it was likely that next time, the attack would be much larger and would hold more of a purpose. When the bounty hunters did come back, they would be prepared for the big catch, so the slaves would have to be prepared to. But even before that, there was an important matter that needed attending to.

“Who had the third watch?” Khamir asked, looking over those from his gang who were nearest him. It was only a matter of minutes before the young man of the third watch was brought in front of the one-armed Haradrim. Adnan still gripped his knife in his hand. His eyes were dry, but opened wide. He hardly blinked, and he stared at the ground with a look on his face that could only be described as horror. Khamir tore the knife from the boy’s hand.

“What did you do?” he asked Adnan simply.

Adnan did not reply.

“Answer me.”

“It’s more what he didn’t do,” one of Khamir’s men spoke up, an edge of bitterness to his voice.

“You did not hurt anyone yourself, boy, but you did nothing to keep anyone from being hurt. And we can’t risk that ever happening again.” He held up the knife. “And if I cannot trust your eyes, I will surely not trust your hands.”

Khamir avoided Adnan’s eyes for a reason, and that reason pained him. But he had a purpose.

“Hadith, come here,” he called the boy to him, and gave him he knife he had taken from Adnan. “If you lose your knife again, to anyone, I cannot say you’ll get another.”

Turning back to the members of his gang, he was slightly taken aback by the absence of Adnan. The boy had disappeared in a flash, and without the one-armed man taking notice. Perhaps he had made a mistake….

Khamir shook his head, gladly scrambling some of his thoughts. “How long do you think before we can get all of them moving again?” he asked no one in particular, though with a glance he caught the eyes of Shae and Beloan, among those standing nearest him. He ignored any stares he received for asking the question at such a time, only minutes after an attack. He would not feel even the least bit at ease until they were on the move again.

[Regin Hardhammer]

The group had not stopped for very long before Ishkur’s stomach stated to rumble loudly. Amid the confusion of leaving the encampment at Nurn, Ishkur had not stopped to eat. While they moved, he tried to ignore the pangs of hunger as much as he could, but now that they had stopped, he had time to dwell on his empty stomach. Oh what he would give for a large juicy leg of meat! He had a particular weakness for horse and donkey, but would settle for some game. In his mind he could see a delicious pony rump turning on the spit, sizzling in its fat and juices. Ishkur looked around to see if someone else had food he could swipe, but no one seemed to have brought very much. Two of the women had gone off to weave a net for catching lizards or birds, but even if they shared their catch, which was highly doubtful, such a pittance would not satisfy him at all. It seemed, to Ishkur, that the only thing left for him was to go hunting.

Although morning was approaching, it was still dark outside when Ishkur left, the perfect time to hunt game. Ishkur walked some distance away from camp and began searching the field for something to kill and eat. Before, he had always been able to go to the mountain footholds and find at least some creature that he could kill. Out here it was different. There was no game to be found. The land seemed desolate, as if nothing had lived there for a long time, and smelled of dust and ash. Even the grass itself grew thin and short, clinging to life on the desolate plain. Nothing flourished here, no animals, except for a few starved rats. To his right, Ishkur spotted a patch of berry bushes, but he did not pay attention to them. He would rather starve than be forced to eat those vile, disgusting things; tubers were one thing, but berries were women’s food. Ishkur had not sunk low enough yet in his hunger to eat berries. No, he truly wanted meat; either roasted or raw would be fine.

Ishkur returned to camp and began to think of ways that the group could get food. They could not survive long without something to eat, and Ishkur had doubts as to whether any beasts would come walking their way. Why was the Ash Plain so devoid of wild creatures? Ishkur had no idea; he only knew he was hungry. If they could not hunt for any meat, they would have to get it other ways. He knew there were gangs of orcs and groups of mannish bandits that sometimes traversed the great plain. Perhaps, if they could find another traveling party out here, the orcs could relieve them of a few pack animals, or even one of the members of their party. The Uruk-hai tended to be the ones to prefer manflesh, but when Ishkur felt so terribly hungry he was not particular about what he ate.

Before the orcs slept, Ishkur spoke to a group of them about this problem. “We are all hungry and have no meat to eat. I have searched, yet there are no animals to hunt. If we do not eat soon, we will become weak and unable to travel. Tomorrow, let us seek out another group of men or elves that we may feast upon their flesh. Or perhaps, we can swipe their horses instead. Whatever the case, we must find meat. Otherwise all our work will be for nothing because we will all be dead.”

[Tevildo]

At some point during the wild dash over the plains, Azhar blacked out and did not awaken until after the slavers' band had arrived back in camp. When she finally came to, she was no longer straddled over Imak's saddle but confined inside some kind of makeshift holding pen, sitting by herself in total darkness. Her hands had been restrained with thick ropes that were secured behind her back. There was a shackle around her left ankle attached to a short metal chain that had been embedded in the prison wall. Her skin was chaffed and raw where the cruel metal anklet had rubbed against her leg.

Azhar's heart thumped wildly against her chest. At first, she could see nothing and when she frantically whispered in the darkness to find out if Kwell was nearby, she was met with ominous silence. Minutes passed, and then an hour, and still no one came. Lying down to sleep that evening, she had almost been ready to give up, complaining about the miserable conditions and wondering if it wouldn't have been easier to stay behind and simply beg the guards for the scraps that fell from their plates. Yet, strangely enough, here in the most dire circumstances she had faced, Azhar refused to despair. There was something inside that could not believe her dream would die inside this bleak fortress without a shred of hope or the gentle touch of a human hand.

How many times had she sat around the firepit and heard stories about the men and women of the West who had risen up to overthrow the might of Mordor? She'd memorized all those names: Aragorn, Gandalf, Faramir, and especially the Lady Eowyn. Those stories were shared in hushed voices in the middle of the night, passed along at great risk since there was always the chance that a guard might overhear.

Now, all alone in the blackness, with every rational hope extinguished, Azhar was beginning to wonder if she could possibly be a small part of that same story. All she wanted was a chance to live without the guards always telling her what to do. The young slave swore to herself that she would no longer agree to carry water. She would adamently refuse to roll over and die like some old dog that been kicked in the ribs and left along the roadside.

For the first time ever, Azhar was angry and aware that the slaves had suffered a great and preventable injustice, although she could not have put that feeling into words. At least she wanted to be able to defend herself. It was wrong that only the male escapees had been allowed to practice with weapons. She was as smart and nimble as any of them, and what she lacked in strength, she made up for in speed. Azhar swore that, if she ever got out of this pigsty, she would persuade Khamir or one of the other slave leaders to teach her how to use a bow or sword.

In the midst of all this thinking, a grating noise sounded above her head, like a latch being drawn back and a wooden door being removed. Craning her neck upward, she could just see the shadowy outline of a few stars twinkling in the night. They seemed to be beckoning her onward, offering her a tempting promise of life beyond this miserable cell. Her gentle dream was abruptly terminated when Imak's glaring face stared down from above. Suddenly, a body was hurled down into the pit, the hands and ankles bound with rope. As the shapeless form hit the ground, there was a mighty thud and then it rolled helplessly over to the side wall. To her great relief, Azhar heard someone cursing.

She waited a minute and then spoke, "Kwell, is that you?"

The answer came back sharp and acerbic, "Well, who else did you think would be visiting you in a place like this?"

[piosenniel]

Durelin’s post


A man who can converse with the birds?

Vrór, growing up under what was once the Lonely Mountain, had heard the tale of Bard on many occasions, and how the man could actually speak to and understand the thrush, though it was said that those birds could understand most speech. Now there was something the Dwarf had always wondered when told those stories – was it only the Common Tongue it could understand? But Vrór could only stare at the old man, and did not really hear a question asked. Were not men such as Bard long deceased?

“We have to reach the slaves before that gang of thugs and miscreants do, or I fear there’ll be no one left.” Vrór’s conscious return to the conversation was not a pleasant one.

He opened his mouth, but found it impossible to form words, or any sound at all. No one left? All…captured or dead? He truly felt that he would prefer death to being recaptured and forced back into chains, and that thought disturbed him to the bone. It was not natural for one to wish death on oneself. It was a horrible thing indeed that anyone would be left with two options, one worse even than being forced to leave this world in brutality and pain. Vrór certainly didn’t want to have to make that kind of choice, and right now, he did not even want to be faced with the decision of what to do next. It seemed Aiwendil had decided for them, though, and that didn’t sit too well with the Dwarf. He was sure that the old man was quite wise, but Vrór couldn’t help but thinking he was a little far off his rocker. Age could do that to you, among other things.

He waited respectfully, if a bit anxiously, for the old man to return from speaking with Rôg, who had pulled him aside. Vrór also couldn’t help but strain his ears, though he felt as guilty as a little boy peeking at his present. As soon as the two were finished, and the Haradrim ventured off on his own – something which Vrór spared a second to wonder about – immediately piped up. “But surely we can’t leave…now? We have naught but a general direction, and I…I’d be a warbler if any of you think you can track this group across Mordor, particularly when we’ve presumably got at least two different tracks on our hands. We’re no help to those slaves if we get ourselves into as deep a trouble as they, according to you, seem to be. With no offense meant to you, Master Aiwendil.”

Vrór couldn’t help but be gruff with his words. He was disturbed by this suggestion. Simply running off across Mordor was not what he had signed up for, nor did it seem rational enough to him. A headlong charge of a rescue mission wasn’t going to get them, or the slaves, anywhere, as far as he was concerned. Still, he regretted the harshness that might have been behind his words, and was glad that he had not added in any mention of a threat to give up on this Fellowship. It would have been an outright lie, anyway.

The Elf’s rather candid explanation of what the device they had found was had opened Vrór’s eyes, and though the understanding he came to of how much pain that single chunk of iron represented was a great one, he wished he had never laid his eyes on it, and for a good long moment, that he had never stepped foot in Mordor. But how could he, or anyone, abandon a being to such a fate as…that. Being branded like an animal, and treated like a disease. There was already so much sickness in this land that Vrór doubted could be healed. If they let just one more thing end as it would without intervention, they would perhaps be worse than the slavers themselves.

He felt strongly about doing good in this world, and though he rarely thought about other worlds, he was an idealist at heart. But he also felt strongly attached to the earth, particularly to rock and stone, and never let idealism whisk away his sensibilities. He desired direction, a plan, a map, a blueprint…something other than an ideal. But with an Elf and a man who could talk to birds, he doubted he would get so much as a push onto the determined path.


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piosenniel’s post

Aiwendil was in one of his agitated moods. They didn’t happen often, but when they did, Rôg tried to keep a close eye on the old fellow. There was a vein near his left temple that throbbed when a situation was critical. And as Rôg craned his neck for a better view of the happenings, he could clearly see the thump-thump of the vessel beneath the skin.

He stood as quietly as he could, waiting for Aiwendil to finish speaking to Lindir. As was usual, he could not read the Elf’s response to Aiwendil’s urgent pleas. Elves . . . very odd creatures he thought. And this opinion despite the number of those he’d met in the old man’s company. Study them as one might, it was impossible to get a clear read on what was going on behind those finely chiseled features.

At a small pause in the mostly one-sided conversation, Rôg plucked lightly at the sleeve of Aiwendil’s robe. ‘I could,’ he said lowering his voice to an imperceptible level, ‘well . . . take a look-see around, you know. If you want, that is.’ He raised his brow to Aiwendil. ‘I’d leave it to you, of course, to explain where I’d gone off to.’ He paused and pursed his lips, thinking. ‘They most likely think I’m odd enough as it is. I suppose you could tell them, I’ve recently taken up the study of some, oh, say . . . bat, perhaps . . . hmmm, yes, one that’s indigenous to Mordor . . . that should do, don’t you think? Up to you, though.’

Rôg stepped back a half pace, giving Aiwendil room to consider the offer.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil peered evenly at Rôg and then beckoned him over to the side. Despite the potentially dire situation, the old man was clearly struggling to keep from smiling. For more than a minute, Aiwendil said nothing, apparently weighing a number of options. When he finally responded, his voice sounded mildly approving.

"Ahem.... Really not a bad idea at all. I had not quite thought along those lines. Of course, I might go study those bats too." The thought of the bats seemed strangely enticing to the old man. "But that might not be wise. Both of us can't simply disappear. I suppose it wouldn't take you very long?"

Rôg nodded mutely in agreement.

"Well then, it's settled. Plus, Elessar concurred it was important that we make a thorough listing of the birds and beasts who managed to survive all this ruin and ruckus over here. Who knows what you might find?" The istar gave a conspiratorial wink and then added one additional note of assurance, "Carl and Athwen haven't finished their work. The group can't leave till they are done, even if we should decide to ride out tonight. So just make sure to return in a little while or you may find yourself.... ah....shall we say....running to catch up."