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

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

As the talks around the fire progressed, Carl listened attentively to the discussion as he sat with his quiver, methodically straightening the fletching between thumb and forefinger. And while he knew that there was very little chance of confusing one of the people now surrounding his companions, for one of the villains that would be bearing down on them, he still would look up intermittently, as he tried to learn each man’s face. It would be bad to suddenly find that he could mistake them during the skirmish. And as he studied those faces, he witnessed here and there, a blossoming resolve displace the grim resignation that had seemed etched on so many of them. Backs that had seemed bent with the burden of living grew a bit straighter before his eyes.

And then too, as he looked up furtively from beneath his brow, he noticed quite a few sets of narrowed eyes beyond their circle, peering at him as well Vrór, making him feel self conscious as he sat there. He knew of Vrór’s great skill, what had he, a simple hobbit, to offer them? Indeed, he did not know himself. It was that he was a farmer, but then many of them had worked the ground, and understood better then he, the climate here. But he was included for some reason, and deciding that there was no point now in second guessing his betters, especially now when the whole plan was being threatened by slavers, he laid his quiver down in the dust beside him.

Clearing his throat, and avoiding the curious eyes of those passing by, he glanced at Lindir then at Dorran as he waited for a gap in the conversation. “If I might make a suggestion or two?” he asked at length. All eyes turned toward the small figure as Carl stood up to address the them. “I just wanted to say that my people once had to contend with a rough group too, maybe not just like these slavers but close enough to be cousins. Anyway, we found out that while each one of us could do little to get rid of so many of them, when we all came together there was no stopping us. Those ruffians could not stand against us.

“My point is this, even if you’re handy with sword or knife, it’s no good taking care of a hundred slavers if the there is only a handful of us left after the fighting. You need one another, both to help you now, and later on when you start to make your own way in this land. We’ve got keep an eye out for each other, you know? And fight as a group. Otherwise it will go much harder for all of us.”

Carl looked at the ground behind him as he moved to sit down. There was a rock there that he hadn’t noticed before. Picking it up, another thought came to mind, and so he addressed the group again, jostling the stone in his hand. “Oh, and we might try to spare the slavers’ horses as much as we can. I can’t help but think that they will come in handy, if we can catch some of them.”

Settling down again, Carl looked at the rock in his hand, remembering the one Athwen had found near the stream. Somewhere in this group was the person who had drawn on it, and he knew that with the raid imminent, there was a good chance that he might never find out who it was. Taking out his knife, he looked around to see if Athwen was nearby before beginning to carefully scratch the stone with his knife’s handle. Drawing from memory the tree, the moon and the bird’s footprint as he listened to the others' sober remarks.

[Undómë]

Brenna

‘Now that’uns got a good head set solid on his shoulders.’ Brenna listened closely to the little man’s words, nodding her head at the common sense of them. She and most of the other women were sitting at a small fire near that of the others who now sat with the group from Gondor; close by enough to hear what was said, but far enough away that they felt they weren’t intruding.

‘What sort of creature is he, Granny?’ whispered Gwenni. In all her eleven years her only contact had been with those men who were either slaves or slave owners. Among and between their groups they differed in skin and hair color, and height a little, but none she could recall had been as short as these two and still full grown.

‘Him and that other fellow who’s a little taller – they aren’t some kind of good Orc are they?’ the girl asked. She wrinkled her brow, considering the problem. ‘I heard that sometimes Orcs don’t get very big.’ Her fingers slipped up to play with a stray strand of blond hair, wrapping it tightly about one finger then letting it fall again into a lank ringlet. ‘They’re not all that mean looking though. As Orcs are s'posed to be, that is. His hair’s nice and curly, that one as was just talking, and I don’t think Orcs wear such fine clothes.’ She jutted her chin toward the Dwarf. ‘And hasn’t that one got amazing hair! Like fire, almost. And a big bush of it round the bottom of his face, isn’t that a wonder!’

Gwenni’s eyes glittered in the fire’s light, and a sly look tickled at the edges of them. Quick as a mouse she was up on her small bare feet and scurrying as quiet as such a creature, too, toward where Carl sat.

‘Ssst!’ Brenna hissed at her, in a low voice. ‘Get back here, Gwenith! Don’t pester him with your questions, girl.’

Paying no attention, Gwenni pulled up short behind Carl and stood stock still. Craning her neck to one side, she saw he had pulled out a knife and was making scratches on a rock he held in his other hand. The girl’s eyes went wide as she saw what he was carving.

A tree! And wasn’t that a moon?

When he started on those little scratchings that began to look somewhat like a bird’s foot, Gwenni gasped, and stepped up beside him. ‘Do you know Granny’s brothers, then?’ she asked crouching down beside him, looking first at the rock in his hand then up at him. ‘Did they send you with a message for her?’

Only a few short moments later, Brenna reached the girl and Carl. ‘I hope this one’s not been bothering you,’ she said, laying her hand on Gwenith’s shoulder. ‘She’s a curious one…and bold to boot.’ She raised a brow at the girl. ‘Let’s go, and leave the folk to their talking.’

‘Granny Brenna!’

Brenna turned at the sound of her name. One of the women called from their fire, waving to Brenna to come back. ‘The tea’s done. Come have a cup!’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

Carl felt as if someone was watching him intently, and trying to ignore his feeling of discomfort, he stifled the shudder that welled up in him to sit like a prickly collar about his neck. But at a delicate gasp from over his shoulder, the hobbit looked up from his work to find a young girl stationed nearby him, looking wide eyed at the rough sketch in his hand.

“Do you know Granny’s brothers than?” She asked as she crouched down next to him, without the least sign of hesitation. “Did they send you with a message for her?” She looked him in the eye with such honest, childlike curiosity; it struck Carl almost as refreshing as the words that she spoke.

Meeting her inquisitive glance with enthusiasm, he turned his full attention to her, as he whispered. “Well young Miss, if you aren’t just the person I was hoping to meet!” And not wishing to unduly disturb the thoughtful conversation around him, he added quickly. “I don’t reckon I know if we have been carrying a message for her or not, but we may have seeing as you know this drawing. I would very much like to meet this Granny of yours after we are done here, if you’d be kind enough to let her know as much.”

The fair-hair girl opened her mouth to speak, but she was quickly silenced by an older woman, who walking up, laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder, apologizing. But before the hobbit had the chance to set this matron’s mind at ease, and admit his utter delight in the child’s line of questioning, the two were called away by another. And they quietly slipped away.

Granny Brenna, the woman had called. Granny? Carl thought making the connection belatedly. He raised a finger behind the retreating figures as though about to call them back, but thinking better of it, he put the rock safely in his pocket and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand.

[Tevildo]

"That was good," Azhar responded as she pushed the cup into Athwen's outstretched hands. "I'm sorry to be a burden. I feel so useless being sick especially when everyone is getting ready for the attack. Back in Nurn, I was never ill. The others used to say I was hard like a rock, and that nothing ever got to me. I don't understand what's happening."

Azhar's face fell. The girl closed her eyes and cradled her forehead in her hands. A moment later, she remembered something and sat up abruptly. Speaking with as much cheerfulness as she could muster, Azhar called out to the healer, "But I haven't thanked you for what you did. You are kind and have come a long way to help. If I had a real place where I belonged, I don't think I would ever want to leave. In fact, I know I wouldn't. Back in Nurn, I only cared about myself. I was good at weaseling out of work and stealing trinkets and food from the guards to make my life easier. I didn't pay any attention to the others." A little embarassed, Azhar glanced away and wondered if she had said too much. She did not quite understand her feelings but she wanted Athwen to like her.

If the healer was surprized by Azhar, she did not show it. She reached out and pressed the girl's shoulder in a reassuring way, "Those thoughts are important, but you'll have time later to sort things out. Now your only job is to rest and get well."

“Rôg,” she said gently, bending towards him, “don’t let her stay up too late talking. Please get her to go to sleep.” He nodded and she turned and walked back to the fire.

************************

"You're supposed to be sleeping. I promised Athwen." Rôg smiled at Azhar who was still lying down but listening to everyone in the circle talk about the attack.

"Oh, Rôg. I can't sleep. Just don't tell Athwen I am awake." Azhar's eyes twinkled as she put her hand up to her mouth and laughted. "I am feeling a little better, and I am so excited about what is going to happen. I only wish I was well enough to fight."

Athwen struggled to sit up but then sank back onto the ground. "I don't know what's wrong with me. In my head I feel stronger and happier than I have in a long time. But it's almost as if there's a fight going on inside my body. If I could just step outside for a minute, I could show my body that my head is in charge. Then, it wouldn't keep making me sick. Do you think I could do that?" There was an earnestness in Azhar's voice that showed she was serious.

Before Rôg could respond, Azhar had posed a second question, "The people you told me about....the ones who beat the evil clan leader and their allies in Harad....they weren't great and mighty warriors. How did simple herding people do that? How did you do that? Did someone teach you how to fight with swords and bows? Or maybe that lady you were looking for was so powerful she could drive everyone off? Or did you persuade others to come help you, the way you are helping us?" She looked quizzically at Rôg.

[piosenniel]

Rôg leaned forward as Azhar spoke, brushing a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. It was a natural act, he had often done it for his sister in their younger days. Daira’s hair was always unruly, much to her distress. And being the younger brother, he took what opportunity afforded him to poke a little fun at her when he could.

Azhar’s temple felt still a little warmer than usual as his fingers brushed across it. He glanced at her eyes as he drew back. They were bright, but not, it seemed to him, with illness. Bright more like from the workings of her quick mind. Intelligent.

‘Did someone teach you how to fight with swords and bows?’ she asked.

Now how to answer that . . .

‘We are not a warrior people, but living in the desert we have some basic knowledge of how to use weapons. Enough to defend ourselves. Our greatest enemy though, or so it seemed to me, was that we were broken into so many little groups and our pride and our fears held us apart from one another. That had to be overcome first before we could join together in strength.

‘Or maybe that lady you were looking for was so powerful she could drive everyone off?’ Azhar continued.

The girl must have drifted off at the last of the story. Just as well . . .

‘We did find her. That is, her friends from Gondor were finally reunited with her. She wasn’t really lost, though, only staying with the Elders from my tribe. Learning some things about herself. I suppose she could have driven the evil ones off by herself, but she didn’t have to in the end. We were all there, together; our strength multiplied a hundred-fold by our working with each other.’ He nodded at her last question. ‘So, yes, I think you could say those from outside our clans . . . Aiwendil, those from Gondor, and more so, the Elders of our clans . . . they put the idea in our minds that we could and should work together.

He glanced at her, wondering what thoughts were going through her mind. Was his explanation enough to satisfy her?

She did look tired, now. Recalling what she had said before her questions about the battle in the south, he turned the conversation back to what she’d asked about what was wrong with her. ‘How about you, Azhar. I was curious about what you said. How you felt like there was a fight going on inside you – between your mind and your body. And I’m more curious how you said that if you could just step outside for a moment, you might somehow get better.’ He narrowed his eyes and considered her closely.

‘Tell me, little one, when you’re lost in sleep, what do you dream of? Can you remember?’

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

The two orcs sat down a comfortable distance away from the sleeping Uruks as they got back to their camp. Gwerr showed Ishkur to sat down. He had a thing or two in his mind.

“Okay, mate. We discuss then?” he opened and grinned in a way that was close to being amicable with the orc standards. He lifted his left eybrow and offered Ishkur a piece of dried meat and started going through his backpack to find the beerflask. “Just a second...” he murmured and finally produced the time-beaten goatskin from his sack. “Here we go then, hopefully we can fill this the next night as you promised!”

They both took long draughts of the lukewarm ale and burbed after it, a sign of mutual agreement. As Ishkur started to chew the offered bite of meat Gwerr queried him.

“So the elf down there, what do you think of it? Are the elves meddling into the way things go on here after that blasted Elessar got his victory? Weren’t they supposed to run and flee away from these lands? If not, that would be bad news indeed... We’ve been fighting the elves for too long and they should really just beat themselves out from here. I mean, they don’t belong here so why should they want to stay?”

Gwerr lokked at Ishkur quizzically, but Ishkur’s mouth was so full and busy that he couldn’t answer him. So Ishkur just nodded to the issue and looked thoughtful and worried. At least that was Gwerr’s interpretation of it.

“And then those Uruks”, Gwerr added before Ishkur had finished his chewing. The dried meat took time to consume. “Do you really think there is something that can make one so much wiser in their birth already? I mean, yes, they are smarter than most of our fellows here, but could they actually be wiser than we two, or Colagar...?” Then he bursted to a smile. “Well, yes maybe wiser than Colagar... surely, that doesn’t take much?” And then he laughed, a kind of nervous laughter that was trailing his thoughts all the time. Things were not going well and Gwerr was worried.

“I mean, how can they be so wise if they are only thirty somethings and we have experience of what, two millenia and more? Can anything match the knowledge from experience? I don’t think so, but still they seem to be at level with us, even wiser, like tonight as they just sleep and take no part to this over-daring looting we’ve been doing...”

Gwerr shooked his head and took a bite of the meat himself. Waiting for his companion to clear his mouth. He was really anxious for his answers. Weird, I’m not used to pay heed to the opinioins of others, but now I’m really interested about what Ishkur has to say... We must be in this together, otherwise it’s the end of us all.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Raising an eyebrow at Shae’s last comment, Khamir watched her take a seat near Beloan and one of the strange short men: the taller one, who had wild fiery hair, a colour like he had never seen before. All that he could really recognize was that he was obviously quite hardy in body and was getting up in age, as both the hair on his head and his beard were streaked with bits of silver. He still wondered about these strangers, but he had been inclined to trust them from the start, and held a new respect for Elessar, King of Gondor, no matter how begrudgingly he had to admit it, even to himself.

In particular, he was surprised by the fact that the King had sent a former slave as a part of the group. It could have been mere chance, yes, but even Khamir had to admit that it was most likely planned. The man was wise. Perhaps the Southron could learn to love this Elessar, even if he never quite came to love Gondor as a whole. If he could, he would be glad to live and serve in a new land under his jurisdiction, even though he was royalty hundreds of miles away.

That night had been full of surprises, and this day was already proving to hold even more. Even Shae had more things up her sleeves than usual, it seemed, and for several moments Khamir could only stare at her, the first few times he blinked out of pure surprise. He also hesitated for other reasons. What would joining this mean? Anything? It seemed to him almost like admitting some sort of defeat. It seemed like giving in. But hadn’t he already? He tried to settle himself, and convince himself to give up the fight already, though perhaps he would lose more than ever if he was fully successful in the latter. Actually suppressing even part of his stubborn nature might harm his fighting spirit – not that there was much fear of that: he was too stubborn to attempt to do so with too much effort.

Finally finding a reason or two for him to join this makeshift counsel of generals of circumstance, Khamir took a seat behind but in between Shae and Beloan. He would not be the one to smooth over divisions between the slaves and the Fellowship. His sense of loyalty, once it was fixed on a particular person or group, was hard to loosen, even just to spread it wider. He listened to the smallest of the newcomers, but feigned disinterest when anyone glanced at him.

“There are about sixty of us in all,” Beloan spoke up after the short man was through.

“I counted some twenty-five or thirty of those slavers,” the strange orange haired man said in a deep, grating voice that sounded akin to that of the mountains themselves.

Now it was Khamir’s turn to speak up. Numbers were all well and good, and he knew there was wisdom in the small brown haired man’s words, but horses were not necessarily as positive. Of course, this outlander would not understand.

“I expect many of you can ride, but many of us cannot. Horses in this land are scarce – the only horses we’ve seen in many years have either been in front of a plow or cooked. Orcs will eat them without a second thought.” He added his last statement in explanation, certainly not wishing to insult these foreign men with the idea that he ate horse meat, not that he had been picky about what he did or did not eat for years.

“I rode as a young man, but it has been almost two decades. Finding more horses may be more trouble than they are worth. We know this land better than any horses, too, and will be able to withstand its treacheries with more grace, I think. These bounty hunters may know Mordor, too, but many of them came here only when they saw opportunity after the fall of the Dark Lord. They are men that readily took the place of many Orcs, even against their fellow men, for money.”

They were below Orcs to Khamir, and that was saying something, as one of those creatures was the cause of his missing arm. But he had long given up on revenge, even though he would take it if ever the opportunity presented itself.

Khamir was too wrapped up in his thoughts and his anger to notice that Beloan was nodding beside him. “We know the land better than they do,” his friend began, “and I hope we will be able to use that to our advantage. Unfortunately, they are more seasoned in the ways of war. Surely some of you, though, know more of battles?” His voice took on an air of beseeching, but there was not an ounce of subservience to be found in his tone or his posture. Khamir looked at his companion with immense respect: he realized his and all of the Mordorians’ weaknesses and faults, and could admit them with losing any of his pride. Beloan was a wiser leader than he would ever have been. Khamir eyed the stump that used to be his right arm as one of his last signs of pride, but he could live with that, because he was alive.