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

[Folwren]

Kwell withdrew from the notice of curious eyes as quickly as he could manage. He slipped away into some shadow still available in the night and curled himself up in a ball. For a few brief moments he lay considering. He felt more at ease here than in the pit. Safe, almost. At least, more safe than he had been with immediately danger lurking just over his head. Sleep caused his eyelids to become heavy. They slowly drooped, falling lower and lower. But why would he feel safer? His eyes opened again. He had no friends here. . .except Azhar, he conceded to himself. Azhar was a friend…

Kwell drifted off into sleep. He dreamed no dreams and slept like a log, completely oblivious to everything, until waking abruptly and entirely. His eyes popped open and he sat up sharply. Everything was bright with late morning daylight. Everyone around him was very busy, hurrying to and fro. What they were busy with, Kwell had no idea.

After a moment of blinking the sleep out of his eye he got up and walked towards the nearest person. It was a young man, carrying a large stone on his shoulder.

“What is going on?” Kwell asked, stopping him with a hand on his shirt.

“Preparations for the slavers’s attack! They let you sleep in, ‘cause you were so tired, but now you’re up, you’d better start lending a hand!” He passed on, leaving Kwell standing alone, almost no better off than before. He looked around and started towards a group of people, constantly traveling in and out of an area that seemed to go underground.

“Stop! Stop!” called a voice suddenly and urgently. Kwell looked up, startled to a standstill. Someone with a dirty face waved a hand frantically for him to stop. “Don’t take another step or you’ll be above the tunnel! Come over here. Walk way round in and arc, yes, that’s right. Come here.” Kwell came and stopped before the man. “You’re a little fellow. Now, we’re digging this tunnel, see?” he turned Kwell’s face towards the small opening in the ground. “We can use boys like you in there better than one of us older chaps. If you’ll take my place below, I’ll set to work on stuff up here.”

“I can do that. But what am I to do?”

“Take this,” he handed Kwell a short, broad, flattened stick, “and this,” and handed him someone’s shirt. Crawl down there and ask the little, bearded man where to start dig. Tell him you’ve taken Dwindle’s place.”

Kwell obeyed without another word. He got onto his knees and started into the dusty tunnel.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

When the meeting had finally come to an end, and everyone knew what was expected of them, Carl stood up rather stiffly, and stretched out his legs as he peered this way and that around the milling figures. He was searching for a sight of that dear girl and her elderly companion, but they had disappeared among the crowd, and he wondered if they had been sensible enough to go with those whose plan was to remain hidden from the slavers. The young and the old both needed to stay hale and hardy for the hard road north, that lay ahead. For even if they did manage to catch a few horses, that grim stranger named Khamir was right, chances were there would be few people found to ride them.

Oh, if only Gondor had seen fit to send them with a wagon, even one like that monstrous contraption he’d seen in the slavers’ camp, when he’d been off spying. It would sure have come in handy if there were to be wounded folk when this was all over. But there was no sense in regretting what they didn’t have. When you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere. You’ve no chance to fix it. And Carl didn’t fancy the slavers would let them borrow their cart either, no matter how nicely they asked.

The hobbit sighed, resigning himself to searching for the woman named Brenna after the he had put in a few hours of hard work. He’d need a bit of a rest then, and hopefully he’d hear it confirmed that she and the girl had tucked themselves away out of sight.

It was not long before Carl’s head was found bobbing just above the rim of a trench, as he worked along side the hard working group that gouged the ground just beyond Vrór’s tunnel. He had volunteered his only blanket, as well as himself, so that the loose dirt and rock could be hefted out, dragged away by a pair of wiry young men who were diligently avoiding the dwarf and his shouts. Off to one side a pair of women quickly sorted through the soil removing the rocks and putting them in piles.

Carl stopped his lively whistling, stooping down to crumble the dirt between his fingers. “The soil’s different here, then it was a day’s ride away,” he observed distractedly.

“Yes, and different still from Nurn,” the worn man next to him said, as he stopped to rest against the side of the trench. “I’ve heard rumor that it is not so bad further north now that The Mountain of Fire is silent.”

“I certainly hope the rumor is right. Still with a bit of care we’ll find something to grow there. Even this poor stuff here isn’t beyond all hope.”

The man gave the hobbit a half smile before returning to work, and Carl was left with the impression that the man must have thought him a bit simple. But with the crops Carl had seen in Gondor, they could actually make the soil better. And he had learned a long time ago that a bit of magic happens if you work with what you have, instead of against it. And so he smiled to himself as he began digging again. It seemed that maybe there were one or two things he might be able to contribute to these people after all.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Ishkur was able to ride his horse almost up to the camp. The slavers were so busy with their preparations in the western part of camp that they did not even notice the solitary figure who approached from the east. Ishkur sat waiting a very long time. The minutes and hours dragged on, but he refused to go back to the other orcs until he could bring them a piece of good news.

Although the sky had been comfortably cloudy and dark at dawn, the weather had changed by mid-morning. As Ishkur sat and waited, the sky shone clear and bright. The day was blazing hot, and the glare of the light was so intense that he found his eyes hurting. He let his horse graze nearby and found a group of boulders where he could squat on the ground and hide his head in the shadow. Every few minutes he ventured out from the rocks to see if the slavers had moved onto the plain. He watched as the men rounded up the last of the horses, strapped saddles onto the animals, and gathered up their weapons. He saw them stop to cook a light meal. That was the last thing he remembered before falling asleep.

An impatient whinny from across the camp awakened Ishkur with a start. He sprinted out into the clearing. From the look of the sun, it was well into the afternoon. Staring towards the far perimeter of the camp, he could see that the slavers had mounted their horses and were proceeding across the plain at a slow pace.

The camp was deserted. Ishkur could not see anyone; not even a sentry had been left behind. Filled with glee at this welcome sight, he charged forward on his horse, his weapon raised above his head. He made straight for the one thing he most desired. The slavers had left not one but two casks of ale. Beside the fire sat a large barrell so full of ale that it would have taken two orces to lift. Next to it was a smaller keg with a brew Ishkur did not recognize. The liquid smelled sweet and heady. He thought this was rather strange since the smell was almost like a patch of flowers growing on the hillside. Still, good brew was good brew. He wasn't going to be picky. Ishkur heaved up the small keg and strapped it on his horse's back. Then he returned to the place where the other orcs were still asleep. Galloping into camp, he roared, "They're gone! The slavers have left. I hope gone for good, but at least for today. The camp is ours whenever we want it. And look what I have brought back." He held the small cask aloft and grinned, and set it down before poking Grask and Gwerr in the ribs. then he explained, "We'll go back once the sun sets and it gets more comfortable, but why not start with a little nip here? It will get us in the right spirit." Ishkur uncorked the small barrell and filled his flagon as he cried out, "Gwerr, Makdush, Mazhg, Grask..... Everyone come here and have a taste."

[Child of the 7th Age]

By mid-afternoon, most of the preparations were completed. The men had nothing left to do but wait. An uneasy feeling hung over the camp. Even Dorran and Lindir, the two members of the fellowship who had often been in situations like this, seemed impatient and tense.

Lindir felt uneasy. He had heard nothing from Rôg or Aiwendil, although the istar had promised to send back a message by pigeon the moment that the slavers appeared The elf was acutely aware that their attackers held the upper hand in the coming conflict. Despite their smaller numbers, the slavers were experienced fighters wielding sturdy swords and daggers and charging forward on the backs of horses. When compared with these battle hardened veterans, the escaped slaves seemed little more than a rag tag bunch of refugees who lacked horses or decent weapons. Most of the men had never even been in battle. Nor was everyone able to fight. Earlier that afternoon, Lindir had led a contingent of children and women, along with the sick and elderly, over to a small cove of boulders located near the rear of camp. The shelter provided by the large rocks was not ideal but the best they could manage on the flat, open plain.

All this lay heavy on Lindir’s mind as he paced about on the edge of camp, intermittently turning to stare towards the east. A short distance away, he could just make out the outline of the trench they had constructed. Vrór and Carl had done an excellent job supervising the digging. Men and women had thrown their hearts and backs into the endeavor; the tunnel was perfectly shielded and blended into the ground so that an approaching rider would have no idea of the disaster that lay underfoot. Even here, however, Lindir could see one problem. The trench was no more than fifteen feet long. What guarantee did they have that the slavers would ride their horses in that exact direction? What was to stop them from approaching camp a few paces to the right or left and totally missing the pit?

It was then that the idea struck him. He knew it was dangerous.....far too dangerous....and he could not imagine asking anyone to do this. Yet at the same time, when so much hung in the balance, he could not overlook the fact that this arrangement might save many precious lives. What they needed was a human decoy, someone willing to serve as an enticing piece of bait, preferably an unarmed woman who would stampede across the field of battle and lure the slavers onward to the exact spot where the perilous trench lay. That individual would need to be an excellent rider with a clear, cool head.. The elf hurried over to Dorran, pulling the man of Rohan to the side, and confided his fears and concerns about the coming battle, especially in relation to the trench. With some hesitation, Lindir inched on to the second part, explaining the idea about the decoy, how the slavers would be led on to their certain doom, and a great number of lives could be saved.

At first, Dorran said nothing and fixed his gaze on the ground. He could not dispute the very real wisdom of what Lindir was saying. Many, many lives could be saved if the slavers could be directed towards the pits in this way. But there was another question that hung heavy on his mind. He sighed and softly asked, “Who then would you order to do such a deed?”

“Order? How could I order anyone, especially a fair woman, to embark on such a dangerous path. No, this could not be an order. It would have to come from the heart of whoever volunteered to do this brave thing.” The two men looked at each other, both hesitent to say anything more.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Frustrated and impatient, Aiwendil pushed the end of his staff into a soft pile of sand, leaning his body against the heavy stave as he intently scanned the horizon to the east. Despite the passage of several hours, there was no sign of his friend Rôg or the band of slavers. Aiwendil had not known exactly when the attackers would come, but he had expected Rôg to be waiting for him at their chosen meeting place. The young man, however, was nowhere in sight. The istar reached inside the folds of his robe and found the small pigeon still nestled in his pocket.

The falcon had returned with several of her companions. They were gliding peacefully overhead awaiting the minute when Aiwendil would give the word to attack. Cupping his hand to his mouth, the old man called out to the same bird he had spoken with earlier that day, “When will the storm come? Can you tell?”

She had swept down and nodded, “Not long. When the sun touches the tops of those rocks over there, the great winds will begin to blow.”

Aiwendil’s eyes followed in the direction the falcon had indicated. The sun was already inching closer to the plain. In just about an hour, it would dip down into the boulders. If the slavers were coming, it must be now. He could only hope that the band had already left camp. Otherwise, their leader would see the bad weather and turn back.

A small swirl of dust and sand appeared in the distance, an indication that a group of riders was moving across the plain. About twenty-five heavily armed fighters were cantering slowly towards the west. The head falcon responded with an excited “kek, kek, kek” as Aiwendil gave the birds the signal to fly free. The istar cried to the departing falcons. “Scratch the flanks and withers of the beasts. Attack the men about the head and eyes only if it is safe. Then return home with my thanks.”

The old man watched from behind a boulder as the birds swooped down amid the riders and began darting in and out, clawing at the horses’ flanks. There were angry curses and swords drawn from sheaths as the slavers slowed their mounts in response to the attack. Several horses had deep scratches along their sides, while two of the men riding in the front had blood streaming down their faces from cuts and gashes near their eyes.

Catching a glimpse of Rôg who was returning with some interesting companions, Aiwendil reached in his pocket and drew out the bird, binding a small scrap of parchment to her leg. Then he raised up his arms and, facing west, released the pigeon into the sky.

[piosenniel]

Blood!

The scent of it carried on the breeze of the men’s passing. It stirred the hornets into a hungry frenzy, diverting them from the object of their present pursuit..... Himself!

Once Rôg had firmed up his plan, he hurried as quickly as the rising wind would take him toward that place where Aiwendil had said he would most likely set the birds on the slavers. Near the rendezvous, Rôg scouted the ground carefully, looking for someplace where the ground dwelling insects might have their nest. No half buried hollowed log this time, but a branchy bush it was whose half exposed tangle of roots provided an entry way to that darkish little cavern beneath which the hornets had claimed for themselves.

He’d stomped about the bush, thumping his feet hard on the dirt, beating at the branches with a stick he’d found. It hadn’t taken much effort or time to stir the small hive of insects to a focused, angry frenzy. They’d come flying out with deadly purpose, intent on doing in their attacker.

And all praise to the old fellow for being timely with his falcons!

Rôg flew with all the speed he could muster toward the men and their horses. As the smell of their fresh wounds hit him, he dropped down low to the ground, hoping fervently that the small cloud of buzzing hornets would take the scent themselves. He closed his eyes.....and would have crossed his fingers as a warding charm had he had any in this guise. He breathed out a great sigh of relief as the angry cloud whirred over and then past him. With an economy of effort, he withdrew to the shelter of some scrubby trees, grinning as he peeked out from behind the sparse shelter at the outcome of his efforts.

A number of the horses were in a frenzy, trying to escape from the painful stings of the hornets. Their riders were scarce able to control them as they themselves were frantically attempting to wave off or kill the wingéd missiles. A few of the men fell from their horses, overcome by the deadly intent of the insects. And a number of those riderless mounts now ran wildly off.

It was a thoroughly delightful rout...at least for now.....

The hornets, he knew, once they realized the horses and men were not wounded enough to succumb to their stings and then be feasted on, would draw away and head back to their nest. Still, it had brought the advance of the slavers to a halt for the moment. And for several moments, he thought, watching as some of the less stung rode off to retrieve the runaways while others of the men called for help for their stung and painfully swelling comrades. Rôg only hoped it might buy his companions and their new allies enough time to complete their preparations against the slavers.....

[Nogrod]

Hadith and Johari

Hadith was getting to where the assigned foot soldiers would gather and make clear of their tactics under the advice of Beloan and Joshwan, of whom the latter seemed to have raised to the occasion. Hadith looked at the late pirate with new eyes as he walked downhill.

On his way he bumbed into Johari. "Oh it's you again", Johari said, condescending.

“Johari! Where are you going? Are you going to join us foot soldiers? Come with me then?” Hadith was tense but tried to be manly and graceful. His mother’s teachings were deep in him.

Johari shrugged a little. "Not anywhere in particular... I'm not much one for battles, or being in the thick of them."

Hadith was upset with the answer. He was totally baffled. How could someone say something like this? But after a small pause he managed to answer her: "What do you say? You're not ready to help others... just sticking to yourself, burying your head into the ground? That's just the thing that benefits the slavers! We must stick together and that means you too! You must join us!" Hadith’s expression was filled with disbelief and begging the question.

Johari looked somewhat indifferent and mildly annoyed: "What if I told you that I don't really care, and that what happens to most of the people here doesn't matter to me?"

Hadith felt stunned for a while and forcefully brought himself to answer her with the immediate question that twirled in his mind: “What do you say?” He was nervous again, as he had been with this woman every time he had met her. But there was something more in it now. He was totally baffled with Johari. She was a wise woman but talked the contrary of every belief he himself found secure. Hadith gathered his thoughts and asked sharply his next question as he thought he had gotten a grip of what was it that they were discussing in the end.

“How would you survive alone in this land, against those slavers and the nature that is dead? Isn’t freedom also about the others?” he made a pause. Hadith was getting even more serious: “Isn’t freedom something about all the people? That you freely decide to be there for others and trust the others to be there with you?” he made a pause again, trying to avoid Johari’s eyes. “ I don’t know... You really make me confused.”

Johari smiled bitterly. "Freedom, yes, that's what it's all about. Freedom. What a concept. Freedom to do what? To what purpose? Perhaps if freedom in itself was what I wanted, I would be more inclined to care... more inclined to fight. Can I help it, Hadith, that none of this matters to me beyond how it affects me, and that as long as I make it out of here alive, with or without the rest of you, I will be satisfied? I never intended to join up with any group when I escaped, but somehow I got dragged along. I don't know why I've stayed. But... this isn't what I want." She stopped abruptly. Suddenly Johari looked and sounded more distraught than Hadith - or anyone else - had seen her in years. This expression was quickly masked again and the familiar hardness returned to her face, seeming to dare Hadith to make something of it.

Surely all this was lost from Hadith’s eyes. "What do you want then?" he asked abruptly and as he got no immediate answer, he turned away in confusion. His young heart had been wounded again by this woman, but he was not sure whether it was for good or bad.