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

[Durelin]

Khamir

“Free Peoples!” Khamir shouted a term he had heard some of the westerners use to address the former slaves. The sound of it was proud, and it asserted the very fact that they were now free, which was something he dearly wished to remind them of.

“Anyone who wishes to head after the Easterlings, the bounty hunters, and free again the children…our children…may prepare to leave as soon before dawn as possible.”

A murmur rose up all around the camp, everyone wondering all at once about this sudden decision. Khamir could only imagine their thoughts and their words: finally a decision, trying to make up for his cowardice, pretending to be leader, playing games of heroes… He was careful not to allow his ears to hone in on any of the voices.

“All of those who remain must be prepared to guard the camp, particularly if anything should go wrong.”

The one-armed man ran a hand through his hair, and looked a great deal like his former self: a weary plantation slave.

“I would never claim to be a hero. I would never claim that I have done anything right. I only tell you now what I know…and what I plan to do. No one must come with me. We are free to do as we will. And I will not sit here any longer… I-“ he paused, and reached down to collect the two knives he had been sharpening and placed them in his bag. As soon as he rose up again, he finished his sentence, with no less assurance, “am sorry.”

Knowing not what else to say, and not at all certain about what he had said, Khamir shouldered his bag, and was followed by Beloan a few yards away from the camp. This would require careful planning, and the Southron man felt a slight thrill of excitement. It was just like the raids of old, only with more precious spoils than ever before…

[Tevildo]

"There...over there....at least that's where they were when I led the guards away from camp."

After Dorran and Shae trotted up to the edge of the stream bed, both dismounted to have a closer look. There was no sign of anyone, although the ground was trampled, and Dorran could see an assortment of muddy footprints leading up and down the bank.

Dorran shook his head and scowled, "Maybe they've left?" His face went pale as a new wave of pain caused him to stop and grab his side. The gash on his head was no more than an annoyance, but the searing pain coming from his ribs was definitely getting worse. He was privately wondering if something had gone wrong. Perhaps his friends had failed in their task and been kidnapped by slavers or something even worse had happened. Dorran refused to give in to his fear. Moreover, he could see no evidence of fighting, no splashes of blood or tattered scraps of clothing fallen on the ground; more likely, his friends had finished the rescue and taken off for the meeting spot.

"Shae, I do think my friends have already ridden out, but let's check the area before we follow them. I'll go this way." Dorran pointed towards the plain and added. "Work your way back along the bank but not too far. Keep your weapon close at hand. We'll meet here in a few minutes." Dorran drew his sword and Shae followed suit as the two slowly proceeded in different directions along the stream bed, searching for anything that would give them a clue to what had happened. Dorran was on foot but Shae had remounted her horse.

Dorran could find nothing suspicious to the west of camp and had decided to turn back when he heard Shae's angry cry. Despite the unrelenting pain in his side, he forced himself to run back along the stream bed. There, at the entry to the tunnel where Carl and Vrór had gone down to do their work, stood a tall figure with slightly pointed ears who was holding a dagger to Shae's bare neck.

"Lindir, no!" Dorran sprang forward to explain and placed his own hand on top of the Elve's arm. "She's my friend, one of the slaves."

Lindir's sword dropped immediately to his side. Then he stepped back and extended his hand in greeting. "My pardon, lady. A hundred pardons. When I saw someone on a horse, I mistook you for one of the slavers. We are here to help you and your people and this is no way to start off."

Shae eyed Lindir suspiciously. She had never in her life seen an Elf. But for some reason she could not understand Shae extended her own hand out and touched Lindir's for an instant. Dorran gave a private sigh of relief.

Then Lindir turned to Dorran, "I am so glad to see you alive. You had me worried. But Rôg's been hurt, and one of the slaves we rescued. Aiwendil left with them for the meeting point not more than five minutes before you came. I'm waiting here with Carl and Vrór and the young boy Kwell. We know the slavers have discovered us. The tunnel seemed a good a place as any if we're going to surprise them and hold them back to let the others get a good ways out."

Dorran was leaning back against the horse's flank and clutching his side in obvious pain. "I'll stay with you to fight," he added through gritted teeth.

"And I too," added Shae, her eyes showing no hint of fear but only the chance to strike back against the people who had hurt her for so long

Lindir shook his head, "No, Dorran. I don't know what happened. Explanations can wait. But I would no more send you out to battle than you would send one of your own men to war who had already been injured. Don't argue. The slavers will be here any second. Ride due west and catch up with Aiwendil. They could use your sword, and most of all the horse. I don't know if the girl is well enough to walk that far on her own feet."

For one instant, Dorran considered objecting, but realized that Lindir was right in ordering him to go with the other group. He stammered out a quick explanation, "This horse belongs to Shae. I can't just take it for myself."

"Yes. you can," the girl added. "I will stay and fight and you will take care of my horse until I come back and take it from you. And, by the way," she added, "my name is Shae."

Lindir nodded, "Well, then, Shae, your heart is as unselfish as it is bold. Come down into the tunnel and meet the others."

With that, Dorran mounted up, turned his horse, and began cantering towards the west.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl emptied his damp shirt of round pebbles he had collected from the streambed, making a pile of them behind the bushes where they were to hide, and lecturing Kwell in the vast differences between hobbits and dwarves, all the while struggling to maintain a straight face. Of course he concentrated on the more obvious differences giving a wide berth to the touchy subjects of politics and general outlook on life. Vrór fortunately, had been too preoccupied with watching the camp as well as the tunnel entrance, to have overheard Kwell’s comment. But Carl had overheard it, and every time it came to mind, his body shook with suppressed mirth until at last a wheezy laugh erupted from him. To think anyone should mistake Vrór for a hobbit! Even the boy had made the connection rather warily, as if reluctant to group the two together. And though the hobbit suspected he himself was quite responsible for the confusion, for he had neglected all proper introductions in the press of events, he couldn’t help but find the humor of it irresistible.

Lindir shot him a sobering albeit not unkindly glance, and Carl tried hard to compose himself. Clearing his throat self-consciously, he apologized to the elf and the boy, and was recovering, when he saw that Vrór pointing wordlessly away from the stream, slightly west of it, looking back at the others to make sure they too saw what he had spied. Squinting, the hobbit could just make out two figures on horseback moving slowly some distance off. Once again Carl reached for the spud bar, but soon realized that the head of the spade that he carried, was gone and must have fallen somewhere in the tunnel. With its highly stylized Gondorian head, he became alarmed that it might prove a calling card to the slavers, alerting them of the efforts of Gondor on the behalf of Mordor’s slaves. Sharing these fears with the others, Lindir quickly proposed to him that Vrór and Kwell accompany him back to the passage underground, quickly looking for it before the riders reached them. He cautioned also that the slavers might have found that they could pass under the rock in the tunnel themselves, and be searching underground even now. He meanwhile, would remain to keep watch on the riders and to warn them of any untoward happenings.

And so the three clambered back inside the passage, and stood listening for a moment to see if they were alone in that catacomb, before they hurried along toward the camp, scanning the floor of the tunnel as they went. They had not gone more than a dozen yards when Kwell found the spade in the water. And bending to pick it up, he returned it to Carl observing that among the other things perhaps hobbits were more fortunate than other’s as well. And the farmer had to admit that it did certainly seem true, at least today, for who else had such friends that would risk running the gauntlet just to remedy such carelessness.

But just as they turned back to rejoin Lindir, they heard a signal from the elf. And gathering together at the mouth of the tunnel, they waited in silence, ready spring to his aid if needed. All was eerily still, until they recognized a voice. Dorran had returned, and was calling out to Lindir. But who was the second rider? Carl wondered. And after a moment or two he heard the horse galloping away. The curtain was quickly removed, and Lindir bid them to come out as he folded the rough blanket neatly. But instead of Dorran, an armed woman faced them, slight and attractive. Swathed as she was in ragged clothes, and wearing the frown of a hard life, Carl knew without being told that she was no slaver, but had been one of those to suffer their cruelty.

She said that she was Shae, and she had come looking for Azhar and Kwell.

But before she could explain further, both her and Lindir’s attention became fixed on dark shapes that were intermittently passing before the glowing fires of the slavers’ camp. Two shapes were rapidly growing larger. And they were heading directly for the gully.

Jumping across to move further down stream, back to the heavy brush, Carl gave Kwell his knife as they organized themselves on the bank opposite the tunnel entrance, so that they had a clear view of both the hole and the camp that lay beyond it. Kwell and Shae crouched waiting, off to Lindir’s right, and Vrór and the hobbit were hidden among the bushes on his left as the two slavers approached the gully in the moonlight.

Slinking about, the two men hopped down to the stream, noiselessly following it toward the place were the others were concealed. As they neared the tunnel’s entrance they slowed, examining it and the ground before moving on. After a short distance they stopped. “They are gone,” one finally said, straightening his back. “It must have been a slave child with a horse that snuck in and carried those brats off. See the hooves marks and small footprints here? Came from the west... one of their cronies no doubt... from that group of slaves. No chance of catching them and teaching them a lesson now.”

“I know...I know.... I suppose we will have to tell Imak then, though he’s in rare form tonight. I don’t relish giving him the bad news. We have waited too long.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll know we can catch them again at their camp. And besides Imak won’t want too many babies now that we know they can fit through that crack. We’ll have to keep them chained together out in the sun, to keep an eye on them. Better to have found out now then after the big raid, eh?”

“You can break it to him then, if you think its a such good thing, and tell him about Hamin too while your at it,” the other slaver said as he pulled himself up out of the gully. “The brute might be able to ride a horse yet, but it will be a while before he can wield a sword or lance as well as he could! If he finds those two, they better watch out, he’s bound to have something in store for them.”

“He was none too happy,” the first laughed following behind the other, as they walked back toward the camp.

“You’d be wild too, if some young whelp nearly took your hand off.”

And as the two men grew smaller, hurrying back to their camp, Carl sat behind the bushes feeling very, very alone and very miserable, hoping that this Hamin might never see Azhar or Kwell ever again.

[piosenniel]

Pio's post -- Rôg

‘May Varda protect us all until we meet again at the grassy knoll or the lands beyond…’ Rôg rolled Lindir’s parting words about in his head as the trio headed away from the slavers’ camp.

. . . "the lands beyond!” It sounded so final. Why must Elves always be so pessimistic? And what possibility was there that I might make it to those “land’s beyond”? he wondered. It sounded like a particularly Elvish sort of thing. Though he thought that perhaps Aiwendil might be the sort to have visited there at one time or another. The old fellow had been many places in his long life it seemed.

He walked on, a little behind Aiwendil and the girl. His side hurt with each step, but it had at least stopped bleeding. It was more as if a line of fire burned now along the shallow gash the arrow had left on his right side. That and the dried blood had glued the inury to his tunic, causing irritation as the material moved back and forth across his skin. He tried to be careful that he did not pull at the material too much and reopen the wound. He flexed his left shoulder just a little. It ached, too, but if he held it close to his body and kept it still, against him, then he found it to be a manageable sort of pain.

His thoughts trailed back to Lindir’s words, back to that one the Elf had named. His thinking fell into rhythm with his slow steps . . . And another thing . . . by the great Winged One, shouldn’t this Varda that the Elves looked up to so much be kind enough to protect them to the end of the task?

He’d heard somewhat about Varda, from other Elves in whose company he’d found himself in his travels with Aiwendil. He’d pieced together what he could about her; listened closely when she was mentioned. He’d asked no questions, not wanting to seem crude and uneducated in the presence of the First Born. At one time he’d heard that she and her spouse lived high on a mountain far, far to the west. And that west, he’d heard had somehow moved beyond the ends of the world.

Rôg smiled and nodded his head. Well there you go, ninny! he thought to himself, as if a spark of light had suddenly flared in a dark cave. That’s the “lands beyond” now, isn’t it?

Thinking about that far away mountain cheered him a bit as he stumped along leaning on the branch Aiwendil had given him to use as a cane. The Old Ones of his tribe lived in the mountains. Though they were not as far removed as those the Elves spoke of. Better that way, or so Rôg thought. That the Elders should be close to those who need their help.

He looked up from the ground as he walked along, noting in the distance that he could see the horses and the familiar figure of Athwen standing near them. Aiwendil and the girl had drawn farther ahead of him. ‘Wait up!’ he called out to them, picking up his pace.

‘Just woolgathering . . . my thoughts it seems travel faster than my feet.’ He caught up to the pair as they drew near to the thicket where Athwen waited.

‘Azhar,’ he said, coming alongside the girl. He’d not spoken to her since she left the underground pit where the slavers had held her and the boy. ‘I’m Rôg,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you how glad I am we were able to find where you and Kwell were being held and get you out. With any luck and a little patience, we’ll be able to find the others of your folk and get you back to them.’

She looked carefully at him as he spoke, a puzzled look on her face....his voice, for some reason, sounding familiar to her....


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Tevildo's post - Azhar

When Azhar tried to remember where she had heard Rôg's voice, she could only dredge up stray images of flashing lights and roaring animals. Since these made no sense, she tried to push all thoughts aside except the need to place one foot in front of the other and push on as quickly as possible to the chosen meeting point. Struggling for a while to match Rôg's longer stride, she couldn't help but think how out of place the man seemed heading across the plains of Mordor. Rôg's face and demeanor were gentle. He did not wear a sword or long-bladed dagger around his waist. The elder who now led their group at least carried a hefty wooden staff that could double as a weapon. But for some reason that Azhar could only guess, Rôg preferred to do without. No freeman of Mordor, scoundrel or honest man, would set out on a long journey without picking out a sturdy sword and battle knife. Azhar remembered how the freed slaves, almost all the men and many of the women, had fought over the privilege of carrying a sword. Then how could she explain Rôg?

This was not the only question troubling Azhar. Despite the pounding of her head and the hot flush spreading across her cheeks, the girl was struggling to understand the actions of her rescuers. Why had Rôg and his other companions come all this way to risk their lives for the sake of slaves they didn't even know? There was nothing in Azhar's past to help her understand this. Over the years, she had tried her best to manipulate the guards, wrangling or negotiating small treats and special favors. The thought of doing something for someone purely out of a caring heart was foreign to her. Perhaps the closest she had come to it was her sympathy for Kwell in the pit.

The girl glanced over at Rôg, wondering if there would be time to ask her questions. But before Azhar could speak, she glimpsed a grassy knoll just ahead and a woman beckoning them all forward. Reluctantly, Azhar slipped away from Rôg. Her questions would need to wait. It was probably a good thing. The fever was dragging her down both in body and spirit. Unsteadily, she grabbed onto Aiwendil's arm for support, shivering slightly.

[Novnarwen]

Eirnar

I’m not his puppy, Eirnar thought angrily. He wanted to run after Khamir, beat some sense into him and finally cut his throat if he dared come with any suggestions again. It wasn’t fair, nor right; not even half of the remaining ex-slaves had weapons, and those who had, could hardly fight. Either they were youngsters, too hot-headed and eager to be beneficial in a fight, but most importantly too inexperienced - or they were men like him, too tired to fight, even for freedom.

He shook his head violently, stomping around in circles. "Guard the camp," he mimicked. Did Khamir not feel slightly responsible for dragging them out here into nowhere and nothingness in the first place, and now, all of a sudden, he was leaving them? How could he demand anything of them, he who was getting cold feet and running away, before whoever had attacked them came back? If they came, no one could save them. He was escaping from a responsibility they all shared, taking care of the old, Aedhild and those too weak to do much, but for an instant of a moment, Eirnar thought rightfully so; when the others eventually would open their eye, awake from their reverie and see what really was going on, Khamir would be ripped into pieces and stomped into dust.

He wanted to shout. Not even at the plantation, staring up at the giggling Orcs as he lay on the hard, cold floor, hands and feet tied, waiting for that final blow that would knock him senseless had he felt more imprisoned. Never had he even considered comparing the two lives, slavery and freedom, but at that moment he could hardly distinguish between the two. Trapped between staying, what was right, and leaving to pursue ones ego, he did not even attempt to hide his frustration.

“Let him go, that fool of a Southron” Aedhild shot in, on the verge of tears. “Do you think he will… bring them..t-t-o us?”

Slightly surprised by what seemed like logic reasoning for once, he stared at her, unable to utter a word. He too had considered it; given Khamir’s background, Eirnar was being rightfully suspicious, but he dared not second her suspicions at this point, not even when seeing Khamir about to wander off.

“Will he come back?” she asked silently, almost whispering, as if afraid someone else would hear here.

“Who knows whether the cursed Southron will come back… For his sake, I hope not,” pausing, he cast a glance at the curled up figure of the woman, hugging her knees tightly, rocking back and forth. “And who knows what will become of us,” he muttered.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Imak pounded his fist on the table in frustration as he listened to the men who were standing inside his tent. Things were even worse than he had anticipated: two men killed while chasing the miscreants onto the plains, several others injured after trying to stop the escape of the prisoners or in rounding up their horses. While a number of the animals had been herded back into camp, more than ten were still missing and would have to be chased down and retrieved by light of day.

Out of everything that had happened since nightfall, Imak could find just one reason to be hopeful. The man sent to spy on the slave camp earlier that evening had returned with good news. From the look of things, the slaves would not be moving on the next morning. They had packed northing for their outward journey. Such a large group could not vacate their camp without some advance preparation. The scout had seen the men holding a meeting but could not get close enough to hear what they were saying. Still, it was clear that the slaves were not heading north anytime soon.

On hearing this single piece of good news, Imak assured the men, "We have time then---time to prepare and sweep down on them tomorrow night. Go to bed. Leave the rest for the morning. Let the fools rejoice in the return of their prisoners. After nightfall we attack the camp. Perhaps we'll drag a few of the strongest off in chains and slay the rest -- every last one of them. They will be sorry they ever tangled with me."

"But Imak....there are profits to be made."

"Profits? Heh! I have had my fill of these fools. They are more trouble than they are worth. As much as I love the jingle of gold, it cannot match my desire to see their heads stacked up in a pile. Go then. Tomorrow we repay the slaves for their little visit."

As the men turned to leave, Imak kicked off his boots and lay down to rest.

[Folwren]

Athwen walked quietly from one horse to the next as the long silence continued, only broken by the distant noises of the slavers’ disrupted camp. No new excitement had startled them and they remained calm and quiet. Athwen felt grateful for that.

After a while, she went and checked her stores of herbs and bandages and other such things for the hundredth time, it seemed. Would they never come? Her hands flitted aimlessly over the contents of the two bags while in her mind she named everything there.

Her mental list was interrupted by the sound of approaching feet. She stood up quickly and ran forward a few steps before stopping. Out of the darkness, three figures could be seen drawing closer. The old, bent figure of Aiwendil with a girl beside him, and several yards back, Rôg followed. Before they reached her, Rôg hurried forward and caught up with the first two and said something quietly in the girl’s ear. She stopped and turned towards him. Aiwendil turned his head, but after a moment, he left them and came forward to Athwen.

“There was only one child?” Athwen asked. Her face showed concern as she looked up at Aiwendil. He shook his head, to her relief and turned to lead her to Rôg and the girl.

“No. There is a boy, but he stayed back with Lindir and the others. This girl is not well, that is why we brought her back. Her name is Azhar,” he added, quietly. Athwen nodded as they stopped near Rôg and Azhar.

Athwen reached out her hand and took Azhar’s hand gently. The girl turned to look at her. Athwen flashed her a very brief smile, while at the same time, her face became far more serious with concern.

“Azhar,” she said, as her second hand lifted to feel her forehead and cheek, “I’m Athwen. You’ve probably been told, but we’ve come to help you.” The hand slipped down to her throat below the jaw and she quietly felt Azhar’s pulse for a moment. “Can you walk a little way farther?” she asked, looking Azhar directly in the eye again. The girl nodded and Athwen smiled once more. She straightened and passed a protective and supporting arm around Azhar’s shoulders and began to lead her towards the horses and the packs and stores.

“Aiwendil,” she said, turning to her left where the old man walked by her side. “She’s got a bad fever. How long until the others get back? Can we leave quickly? I can give her very little now, but once we stop, if we can, we should make a fire to prepare tea and some sort of soup, if we possibly can.

“I hope that they are not too long in coming, but it depends on what the slavers do.”

Athwen nodded her head and turned back to Azhar. “Sit down here.” Azhar obeyed without question and sank wearily to the ground. Athwen undid the clasp of her cloak and she pulled it off and put it around Azhar’s shoulders. Then she quickly reached over for one of the flasks of water and handed it to the girl. “Drink as much as you can,” she ordered gently. With one hand holding the cloak and the other holding the flask up to her mouth, Azhar complied.

As Azhar took small sips of the water, Athwen saw from the corner of her eye a rider come into camp, leading two horses behind him. She glanced up briefly and as Aiwendil walked forward to meet him, recognized Dorran. She smiled to herself with a new sense relief and turned her attention back to Azhar.

The girl had finished and when Athwen looked back to her, she held out the water, having drunk as much as she could. Athwen took it, and noticed the girl’s hand trembling as she relieved it of its burden.

“Lie down, now Azhar, and try to sleep,” Athwen said in a soft, low voice.

“Aren’t we going to be leaving?” Azhar asked, in a whisper, as she began to lie down slowly. Athwen nodded as she tried to make Azhar comfortable.

“Yes, but not yet. When we go, we’ll take you with us. You need to rest as much as possible.” She smiled as encouragingly as she could as she brushed the black hair away from Azhar’s face before she stood up and turned away. “Now, you, Rôg,” she said, walking forward to the man who stood waiting her attention. “You were hurt?”

Rôg told Athwen what had happened and how the arrow had hit him. Athwen laid her hand on the materiel of his tunic. She could see where the blood had seeped through and feeling the half hardness of it, could guess what had happened. She looked up at Rôg. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to pull this away and it’s going to hurt.” He nodded and Athwen saw his jaw clench tightly before she looked back down. “We’ll get some water on it, first, and perhaps soften it back up,” she said, changing her mind suddenly.

Quietly, then, she worked with Rôg’s wound. She softened it, and pulled the tunic away. Rôg removed the entire tunic for her and she cleaned and dressed the cut. She left it unbandaged while she looked at his shoulder. Having verified that nothing was broken there, she told him that it was badly bruised, but would heal on its own, and advised him not to use it.