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

[Firefoot]

As night fell, Grask had found himself once more creeping closer and closer to the slavers’ camp, drawn by an insatiable curiosity of the strange creatures called Men. It would be a while yet before the camp quieted enough for the Orcs to make their raid, but Grask saw no reason why he couldn’t wait here just as well as farther away – so long as they didn’t catch him.

Then suddenly, many things seemed to happen at once. From somewhere nearby there came a loud bang that spooked Grask badly, and when he turned to look he saw bright colored lights exploding in the night. They seared his eyes and he blinked in pain, immediately turning away. At the same time a monstrous snarling cat leapt out of nowhere into the Mannish camp, scaring the horses so that they reared and whinnied, some breaking off into the night.

Grask ran. He started to sprint off away from the mountain cat, then realized he was heading straight for the blazing lights. He changed direction, crashing through the snarled brush to come nearly head to head with a bolting horse. The flailing hooves came dangerously close to his head, but he ducked his head and dashed on mindlessly –

– and found himself flat on his face, wind knocked out of him. Had he been able to breathe properly, he might have gone on running, but as it was he lifted himself up slowly and looked around to find what he had tripped over.

A body. Grask recoiled as if he had been struck, then slowly drew closer once more. A Man’s body, but dead, Grask realized: the throat was sliced cleanly through. This was no Orc’s work: too neat. Who, then?

Grask did not dwell on this question long. Instead, he set about exploring the Man’s body, running his hands over the strangely smooth and soft skin and examining his clothes, which fit him remarkably better than Grask’s own patched-together tunic and was made of uniformly-woven cloth. Next came the pockets. Grask found a couple of silver coins, the like of which he had seen once before, though he didn’t remember where. He pocketed these for himself. There was also some flint, which Grask left. The Man also had a bow and a quiver of arrows on his back and a knife at his belt. With some difficulty, Grask managed to remove the knife and sheath and placed them on his own belt. Now he had two knives. Already the demon-cat, whose screams were fading away, did not seem nearly so frightening, and the devilish explosions were simply lights and noise, after all. Or so he thought - until a great one lit up the sky with a bang, emblazoning itself in Grask's sight. He cowered back into the brush. Not until they stopped would Grask be going back to the Men's camp. Not him.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Beloan had sent a friend of his, one of the original escapees, to replace Hadith on the watch over the hill sometime before noon. Hadith had seen a lonely rider riding northwards some couple of miles east from him during the morning hours. Besides that it had been dull and uneventful: just the plains and the hills, the dry grass suffering under the hot sun everywhere. The chirping of the crickets had been the only sound he had heard besides the occasional breeze of the wind. Everything, the heat, the quietness, had been oppressive.

Back in the camp of the slaves Hadith soon realised that nothing had been decided. He was disappointed but didn’t show it to Beloan to whom he reported after his duty. He had eaten something and helped Khala and Cuáran washing the wounds of an older man and changing his bandages. Seeing the cut on the man’s side and actually washing and tying it, Hadith had realised that they were not able to leave at the instant. That didn’t prevent him from getting frustrated about the situation. They were free now, but all this felt like they were intentionally waiting to be taken back to slavery, robbed of their newly acquired freedom. We’re like sheep who break free from the fence and then stop at the edge of the nearby forest, waiting to be captured again.

Hadith was idling, sharpening his beautiful Easterling knife for want of anything more reasonable to do, as Adnan approached him. He had seen the younger lad from far away and noticed his hesitation but had decided to ignore him. But at last Adnan had braved to come to Hadith and asked him: “How,... how did you…do it? How’d you…kill him, bring him down?”

Hadith didn’t consider Adnan very highly. On the contrary. One who falls asleep on guard should be despised by all. That was his opinion of Adnan. But his question had cut deep into the ponderings of Hadith. It had penetrated his own insecurity and baffledness about all that was happening in this newly acquired freedom and all that it meant. The question overwhelmed him and pushed his distaste for Adnan to the background. The insecurity of Adnan’s voice and the vulnerability of his whole demeanour reminded him of himself too strongly to just despise him. So instead of scorning him, Hadith raised his face to meet Adnan and gestured him to sit down beside him, sheathing the knife after wiping it clean to the sleeve of his skirt.

“So how?” Hadith began but paused for a while, looking at the younger boy absentmindedly, immersed in his own memories of last night. “Well, I just threw my blade... and then he fell. The others did the rest, clubbing him to death.” Hadith fell silent again, staring at the ground between his feet.

“How did you have the courage? Weren’t you afraid?”, Adnan asked Hadith sincerely.

“What do you think? Sure I was afraid!” Hadith snapped to Adnan. “I was scared like Barad-Dûr!” Hadith managed to smile thinly to Adnan but then his expression got serious again. He thought of the last night, thinking it out aloud.

“I remember it... I remember it quite vividly. After I woke up to the attack I decided that I would have to do something... Then there was the dog that attacked the girl... It jumped on me and threw myself down... I remember the warm blood splashing over my face and chest.” With that Hadith touched the front his shirt with his fingers. The stains of blood had already stiffened and hardened the fabric.

“Then the sound of the hooves started to draw closer again... they were closing in... The Easterling appeared from the darkness, shifting his lance towards me just a couple of feet away... I don’t know... I just ducked down and only felt the horse running over me as I had closed my eyes. But then I just... well, I turned around and saw the rider riding away from me. I just threw my blade to him.” Hadith was silent for a while picking small stones from the ground and dropping them down again.

“There were all kinds of noises there, but I still remember the sound of the knife hitting his back and the yell he made with the impact”, Hadith raised his eyes and looked straight at Adnan who was listening to him in awe. “That was the most terrible thing I have ever heard... I’ve seen him fall from his horse a hundred times after that... Everytime I close my eyes I see it... I took a closer look at him after he had been beaten to death. He was a young guy like you and me.” Hadith fell quiet again but Adnan dared not to break the silence even though he was baffled by his words.

“Yeah, he would have taken us captive and robbed us of our freedom. Sure he would have. It’s better he’s dead than we are slaves again, but still that doesn’t settle the things with me. The thought doesn’t help here...” Adnan looked downwards and so did Hadith. They were quiet, both in their own thoughts. After a while Hadith broke the silence, coming back to the initial question to escape his present thoughts.

“So how did I do it?” Hadith said, raising his head to meet the eyes of Adnan reacting to him speak again. “When I was a child, my father told me that everyone is scared, even the great heroes are. But what differentiates good men from spineless cowards is that the good men ignore their fear. They think of something else than just themselves at the moment of peril. Maybe that’s the way to overcome fear, not to think only of yourself?”

The realisation of the origins of these ideas hit Hadith hard. Yes, that was his father speaking! He had not remembered these things in years, but here he was; his father speaking to him when he had been very young indeed. He remembered now the expression his father had had beside his bed in the barracks long time ago.

Tears started flowing from Hadith’s eyes and soon he was crying openly. Adnan was looking at the older boy in confusion. Hadith sniffed and wiped the tears dry with his left hand. “Sorry about this. Just old memories...” But then he bursted to tears again. He was missing his father and mother. Where were they and why had they been taken away from him? Hadith felt more alone in this world he had ever felt. Cold vibrations shooked his body as he cried out to his anguish.

[Durelin]

Adnan

Adnan felt increasingly awkward as he watched Hadith fall into sadness, but he also felt his respect for the young man increasing. This man was more like himself than the fifteen year old ever would have thought. And he was even stronger than he had thought. The idea that Hadith had not been afraid, and so had acted with his wits about him, was impressive, but somehow, it filled Adnan with more awe to think that the young man had been afraid, and still had been able to take the Easterling down.

“Maybe that’s the way to overcome fear, not to think only of yourself?”

“Not to think only of yourself…”

Those words came especially as a sharp bite of pain, right into Adnan’s chest. They came across as accusatory to a still guilty conscience. Had he been thinking of himself when he fell asleep on duty? Had he been thinking of anything? This man probably blamed him, though. They probably all did, even when they smiled at him. Their kindness was forced, because there was no escaping that it was his fault. He would never get away from it. How could he change that?

Adnan looked away, looking to the ground as the other young man began to cry. He did not feel that Hadith’s tears were wrong or shameful, he just could not face the man; he could never face anyone in grief. He did not know how to share in their sadness, he did not know how to give them any comfort. Perhaps part of his confusion and inability was because he had never received comfort himself. He had never blamed anyone for it, though, and he hoped Hadith didn’t blame him for it now.

He had to do something, though. He could not just sit here…like he had fallen asleep.

“Your father was…he was wise,” Adnan forced out, stumbling over his thoughts and thus his words. He was not good with words. It took him some time to put thoughts into them, and even a simple word like ‘wise’ felt strange to him. It was difficult to put such a description into one word. “And…so are you,” he said, his words sharp and sudden as he forced them out, though utterly sincere. He gave a sharp nod at the end of his words before rising to leave Hadith to his grief.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Making a quick round of the camp as the night crept up on them all, the group still licking their wounds, physical and of another kind, Khamir felt worry anger growing slowly inside him, tightening its grip. He should have looked for Shae long before now, and gotten over his stupid pride. He should have known something important, something dangerous, was up. It had always been impossible for the one-armed man to understand that woman. He had often wondered what kind of pain manifested itself in the cuts on her hands. He had never said a word about them to anyone, much less her, but he knew they were there on purpose. But what purpose, he would never know, and he would never have to. To him, pain was pain.

He asked over and over if anyone had seen Shae, each time requiring a quicker answer as he lost any patience had had begun with. That fool woman…she was insane! What was that – bravery or madness? Should Khamir admire her, or fear for her…or both? Part of him did admire her, and the rest of him was a mix of emotions related to just how crazy the woman was. In some ways he wanted to laugh, and in others he felt sick with worry. And he was jealous: she had beat him to the glory. The glory…it was worthless out here, if it was worth anything anywhere; why did he still feel he needed it?

There was really no question where Shae had gone. She always made her displeasure obvious, and this time she had clearly been displeased with just about everything Khamir had done recently and proposed to do. She had gone back. She had gone after them. The bold, thickheaded, defiant woman. Sometimes one had to wonder if she had a death wish. By the cuts on her hands, one might definitely think so, but Khamir did not. She was a survivor. At least, she had always been…

His teeth gritted, he marched through the campsite to find one of the few people he still trusted. He so wanted to trust Shae. He had so many times before, and maybe he still did, even though his brain told him it was foolish, dangerous. To the rest of him, it felt right that he should trust her, no matter where that might lead him. Maybe he simply needed to trust in her and her abilities, trust that she was still alive. Catching Beloan’s eye upon finding him, the man followed Khamir a few paces away from others.

“She really is gone,” the, perhaps former, gang leader whispered.

Beloan let out a pained sigh, and then silently stared at his companion, as if waiting for something.

Khamir did not notice, staring at the ground beneath him. “I am such a fool,” he muttered.

The other man snuck a smile, the one-armed man still looking down. “It is too late for blaming yourself, or anyone.”

Too late…they were all running out of time. Either direction they chose to go, the time they had to make their decision was rapidly growing shorter. Perhaps it had already ran out, and they were now living on luck, trying fate. But Khamir could not feel afraid.

“We have to act before dawn, as long before it as we can manage. Tell the others, and pick… No, we will tell everyone. We will ask for those who can, who wish, to volunteer. We need a party to go after the bounty hunters, to rescue the children, and to find Shae… And we need others, everyone, to be prepared to guard the camp. If you’d like to head the latter group…” Khamir trailed off, as Beloan was already shaking his head.

“No, I go with you,” he said simply. He knew, before any talk of parties, what group the one-armed Southron intended to be a part of.

[Undómë]

Mazhg, Zagra, & Ungolt


There had been magics in the Dark Land, before the mountain fell in on itself and the Dark Lord himself fled. Mazhg remembered well the fiery flashes of fell light and the sounds as if the ground itself were rent apart. Those who were compelled to live in that foul land would hide themselves away at these occurrences, fearing the Great Eye’s baneful gaze might fall on them. And what poor life that was their piteous lot would be snatched from them, or worse, be made a thousand times more wretched.

She and Zagra had made their way to a spot close to the slavers’ camp. They were spying on the men, waiting for an opportunity to creep into the supply tent once more and make off with what they could. Ungolt was with them, and it was she and Mazhg who were peering over the top of the slagheap, watching for the men to relax their lookout. Zagra was huddled just a few feet below them, waiting patiently for instruction.

Of a sudden, the sky was filled with bright light and loud booms! and sizzling crackles. And a little ways from their vantage point, the slavers’ horses had become increasingly agitated and distressed and were madly trying to flee the commotion. Ungolt slid a little ways down the pebbly slope and hunkered down with Zagra. The two of them hissed at Mazhg to hide herself away until the fell sorcery had run its course.

And Mazhg, for her part, was well-disposed to do so. The movement of the cat, though, had caught her eye. And it was as if the beast moved in concert with the tumult of lights and noises, stirring up the men and horses from his side as the sorcerous lights and sounds did from their side. She watched him as he harried the herd, his intention it seemed not to slay one of them, but simply to make them run wild. It seemed odd to her that he did not cut one from the group and run them to ground.

She saw the archer loose his arrow and the barbed shaft cut alongside the cat’s flank. Pushing aside the fear of the lights and explosions, she watched as he fled to the cover of a rocky heap only a little ways away from where she and her sister and Ungolt were hidden.

‘Ssst!’ Zagra hissed at her, grasping Mazhg by the ankle to pull her down toward the little hollow where she and Ungolt crouched. ‘What are you doing, Mazhg? Come down quick!’ she whispered in a frightened voice.

A shiver of dread mixed with wonder shook Mazhg as she slipped down to her companions.

‘What did you see?’ Zagra spoke low as she hugged her sister close.

[Folwren]

A great crackling blast startled Kwell out of his hopeless attitude. He stood up onto his knees, his eyes wide with surprise and excitement. His heart thumped furiously against his ribs. A flash of light showed from outside like some strange fork of lightning. Then, muffled and what sounded like in the distance, came the frantic neighing and terrified screaming of the horses. Kwell could hear the dull sound of hoof-beats in the ground, getting fainter and fainter until they faded altogether.

But those sounds were forgotten in a moment as Kwell’s ears, listening so hard that they hurt, nearly leaped from the side of his head as he heard a splashing and a bubbling noise from the back of the prison where the water came in. He turned his head and looked. The water slackened a moment, as though stopped up with a cork and then came again full force, but something had come through with it.

Kwell scrambled as quickly as he could over to the wall. He looked hard, and in the dim light – what! It had to be his imagination – those two, large, very wide eyes looking up at him and a face white and pale in the water. He stretched out his hand to see, expecting to meet with nothing but cold water and stone. His fingers closed on the cloth of a collar and the thing beneath him was really of flesh and blood. He pulled up sharply, but it was hardly necessary, for as soon as his hand touched him, the figure moved and struggled up to his feet.

Kwell moved back quickly, and even on his knees he was surprised to find that he looked the strange person right in the eye. He was no taller than a small child.

“Wha- what?” he asked slowly, completely at a loss of words and thought. “What are you doing here?” he finally gasped out.