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

[Firefoot]

Grask lifted his waterskin to his mouth for another swig of the fiery liquid from Iskur and Gwerr's keg only to find that it was empty. He felt vaguely discontented at this. He had drunk ale only once or twice in his short life, and never a whole skin's worth: only a small swallow snitched from the older Orcs, and typically on a dare. Now his senses seemed heightened and Grask was feeling remarkably carefree and bold, though light-headed. Life was good. He was possibly better supplied than he had ever been in his life; his pack was full and there weren't any other young orclings around to challenge him for it. And even if he were to want for something, an entire empty man camp was spread out before him, ripe for the picking.

He considered poking around the camp to find more ale to fill his waterskin - it couldn't be all that hard to find, as drinking seemed to be at least one thing men had in common with orcs - but decided against it. Gwerr and Iskur would undoubtedly find some more, and Grask could fill up then, if he wanted to and they still felt inclined to let him. And then there was the sandstorm that pricked at his skin and irritated his eyes and nose and mouth. Finding shelter would be preferable to finding ale.

Without making a conscious decision, Grask found himself again near the pit where the man children had been held captive. It ought to serve well; the wind would not reach him there. Grask slowly lowered himself down into the pit, though as he neared the bottom he somehow slipped and found himself sprawled on the ground. He blinked a few times in confusion and tried to clear his head. What had just happened? He shrugged it off.

He was disappointed to find that one of the meat packages he had thrown down to the man children was untouched. Surely they would have been hungry? Didn't they eat the same sorts of food? And that had been a nice chunk of meat. His initial disappointment wore off quickly, though, as he realized that he was rather hungry. He ate the meat himself, savoring the raw, juicy bites. After eating, he decided to explore the pit and quickly found the stream. It passed under the pit's walls and seemed fairly deep. Grask did not swim; he recoiled in disgust from the cool water. But he knew that some orcs could... and he supposed that men might, too. Why not? Could those men children swim? Had they escaped, rather than being put to death as he had previously assumed? So where would they be now? Might he see them again?

But he was not about to attempt a swim, and he contented himself with thinking over these questions while he waited out the sandstorm in the bottom of the pit.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Urlok’s post

Urlok swung his horse about on the rocky ledge and brought her to a halt, staring down on the grove where the slavers had begun their charge. The older man had no idea where his Captain was. A few minutes before, six of the band, almost half of those left who were capable of fighting, had come galloping up to him with garbled accounts of what they had seen. Speaking in fearful voices, the men described a gigantic flying creature that had charged down on the plain not far from where they were standing. One of the men had claimed to hear the shrieks and roars of three comrades obviously under desperate attack, and that one of those despairing voices had belonged to Imak.

Urlok did not know what to make of this. He was a stolid man, experienced and battle hardened, little given to imagination or flights of fancy. In all the years he had fought, he had never seen or heard of any such gigantic flying beast, other than those in the faerie stories that were told to children around winter fireplaces. Even glimpsing this great creature from a distance, his men had been terrified and shaking, fearful that the creature would descend on their heads and strike again. Urlok had roared back at his fellow slavers, telling them to stiffen their backbones and to keep their minds on what they were doing, promising that, if he heard any more about flying beasts, he would personally separate their shoulders from their heads. He had said this in such a way that his men had backed off and begun to regroup for the battle charge.

Urlok knew nothing of dragons or myths, but he did know about fighting, possibly more than Imak. With the Captain nowhere in sight, he had stepped to the front and barked out orders to the men who were returning to the grove in twos and threes. Within a short time, he had managed to organize them, so they were now charging forward into the grove. Despite heavy losses among the slavers, Urlok felt that his band had a decent change of prevailing and dragging off any number of women and children back to Nurn in exchange for gold and silver. He still had twelve stout fighters, all experienced in battle. Although relatively few of the defenders of the camp had been slaughtered, great numbers of them were wounded and totally unfit to fight. Moreover, there were many women and children who, while whole bodied, had no knowledge of fighting. Altogether, Urlok guessed that the slaves possessed no more than fifteen to eighteen fighters who could put up a fierce resistance. Moreover, most of the enemy were on foot, while most of his own band still had their horses. The odds, then, were not bad. With that consoling thought in mind, Urlok kicked at his horse’s flanks and urged him down the rocky slope, his sword draw from its scabbard.

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

Save: Lindir describes the action

Lindir, Gretl, and Wulf raced into the grove a few moments after the slavers' attack had begun in earnest. Aiwendil bustled over to the elf's side and hurried him off to the sheltered cove where Athwen was attempting to care for the injured. It was the one place that was still well protected and they could talk in relative peace.

Aiwendil blurted out a quick report, trying to give Lindir an accounting of what had happened in the course of battle. "It has been hard...very hard. The freed slaves report many losses. Reagonn, Syth, Zaki, Erlech, and Joshwen have all fallen. Others too....more than I can name. And there are others we have not seen, a number of those who were on horseback.....Darren, Korden, amd Ayce. Whether they live or die, we do not know. Many too are wounded. Too many for Athwen to tend easily. Hadith has been brought in with injuries, and Adnan too. Athwen has gotten some of the women to help her."

Lindir glanced over and saw Johari kneeling beside the wounded Hadith. He could also make out Azhar and two other young women helping to care for those who lay wounded, "Azhar is safe then? I'd heard a garbled account that she had fallen to the enemy."

Aiwendil shook his head, "No, she was brought back safe here, but not before a serious scuffle. She went out searching for the lost child Tom. She managed to find him alive but in the hands of several slavers. Rôg rescued them both and did us a service. He took out two of the slavers on his own and injured Imak severely. The man has lost his hand and should not bother us again today."

Lindir raised one eyebrow but said nothing. Glancing up, he saw Dorran dismount from his horse, carrying Fewerth in his arms. The Rider lay the injured man in front of Athwen, explaining that he had been trampled by a horse, and then went off to collect another man who had been wounded. Aiwendil's eyes met Lindir's and , despite the hard surroundings, saw a look of relief. "They both made it back then. I feared for their safety."

"Yes, Athwen told me that Dorran's head wound is bleeding again and, like so many, he can not ride out to fight. But he insists on helping with the injured and bringing those in who need attention. And if this part of the grove is breached, he will fight, wound or not."

Lindir nodded and glanced around. He could see Khamir and Nasim fighting doggedly in the thick of battle. Beloan had also joined them. But others, too many, were missing.

Lindir prodded, "Where is Shae and Kwell?" I do not see either of them. Indeed, I thought Kwell was to be placed in charge of the older children in the grove, but I only see Grwell, standing there beside Rôg. Kwell was at the trench, I know, although he was supposed to be here. But since then I have not seen him. And the woman? Where is she?"

Aiwendil shook his head and hastily replied, "I have no news of Kwell or Shae. I have seen neither since the battle began. But there is one more thing I must show you."

Aiwendil walked gently over to the Dwarf and knelt down on the ground. "Vrór." he said simply.

Lindir slipped to his knees and put his hand on the dwarf's chest. The breaths came slow and halting.

Lindir shook his head and spoke, "This is the hardest, the hardest of all." At that moment he glimpsed one more friend trying to stay alive in dangerous surroundings. A large horse was prancing and snorting on the outskirts of the grove with two fighters precariously mounted on his back. Carl was in the front and was having some difficulty guiding the animal while Dirrand was hacking wildly in all directions with a large sword. They were faced by three slavers, the first tall and heavy wielding a battle axe and the second a much smaller fellow who darted in and out with a small slashing knife. In the distance, just approaching them, was a man whom Lindir knew to be one of Imak's most trusted henchmen. He had riden down the hill and was charging straight for the beleaguered pair.....

Hastily, Lindir stood up, "I must go. Carl needs my help and I can do nothing for my good friend here. We will have to leave that to Athwen and to the ancestors of the Dwarfs whom they say look after their own. Aiwendil, hold the grove. So far the women and children are safe. We must keep that so." Then Lindir turned and sprinted down to where Carl and Dirnan were fighting.

[Tevildo]

For the past half hour, Azhar had tried to do what Athwen told her: running to fetch water jugs, collecting strips of cloth from the ladies in camp to use as makeshift bandages and helping to clean the wounds of a few whose injuries had been minor. The center of the grove, the area where the hospital had been set up, still held fast against the attackers. Several of the freed slaves had formed a ring around that part of the encampment, and up to this point none of the slavers had managed to break through.

On the outskirts, however, the two sides battled fiercely. The area of conflict was clearly widening. Already, one or two slavers had ridden within a stone's throw of those women and children who had hidden in a tangle of boulders set further north, close to the entrance of the grove.

As the fighting crept closer to Azhar, the noise and stench of battle was almost more than she could bear. But seeing Athwen's calm and quiet demeanor steadied the girl and helped her keep her fears in check. All thoughts of changing into a wild creature and challenging the enemy single handed were gone. Azhar instinctively understood that she had no real control over the animal shape and that to try to shift over in the middle of this chaos could only lead to disaster. Plus, as she watched Athwen work her quiet miracles on those who had been injured, the girl sensed that what was going on in this little corner of the camp was just as important as actual fighting. Even Dorran did not complain too much when his wife suggested he use his horse to help bring in the wounded rather than engaging directly in the fighting with the cut in his head reopened and bleeding.

Azhar filled a gourd with water and brought it over to Azhar who had knelt down beside Vror to look at him more closely. After accepting it, the older woman explained, "We need another to help. There are too many wounded for the two of us and my husband is likely to bring in more. A few moments ago, Aiwendil spoke of an older woman who is a midwife skilled in the use of herbs. Her name is Rowenna. Run up by the entrance to the grove and see if she can come back here. But be careful! There is fighting not far from there."

With that, Azhar nodded curtly and sprinted off in the direction that Athwen had indicated.

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

Ishkur asked Gwerr to get the ale barrell inside for them. That sounded fair and reasonable enough. But then all this talk about giving some of the coins to the females, even trusting them to just hold their tongues about it made Gwerr really nervous. He took the few steps needed to get to the doorway but from curiosity glanced back to the tent as he went out just to see Ishkur untying one of his bags and stuffing one more coin to his pocket. Man, you’re losing your grip... Why do you have to go jelly-brained at the moment when we should be our smartest?

The rising wind threw dust on his face as he stepped out of the tent and made him cough. As he was able to open his eyes after a while he noticed the general hassle in the camp. What he could judge from the flickering shades and noises coming from different directions, it seemed that all the others were present, looting whatever they could. The wind was furious, gaining speed every now and then and making nearly all perception impossible.

After a while as Gwerr tried to locate the barrel he suddenly noticed Ishkur’s newly acquired horse stepping to and fro looking very nervous. Oh Morgoth! Well, good I was the one coming out...

“C’mon you!” Gwerr called the horse as he approached it and took the reins commandingly into his hands. He pulled gently but demandingly and the horse followed him, calming down a bit. Slowly Gwerr took the horse to the opening of the tent and then gripped it from the mane, pulling it’s head firmly downwards. “Now you’re coming with me my four-legged treasure-carrier, you come nicely to the inside... You’ll like it more there and we’ll like it so much more to see you and your carriage all the time”. Simultaneously he half pulled, half pushed the animal inside the tent, pulling it’s head downwards so that it fitted in without felling the tent down. Ishkur seemed a bit perplexed with the entry of the two.

“I may have my reasons to believe your overall sanity going bye-bye, but leaving our treasure out there for the Uruk-scum to grasp is just outstanding! What if Makdush and his slimy friends would have noticed this one while we were in here nicely sipping ale and getting our well deserved drinks? What then, Ishkur, What then?” He showed his contempt with an orcish gesture and went back outside. He thought for a second why he had been so angered about the horse being left outside before he realised that it was probably because he himself was to blame as well. Neither had he thought of getting the horse with the loads of coins safely inside in the first place. But Ishkur saw it earlier that the others were around and about... he tried to reason to himself but failed to make himself confident with that.

When he came back in dragging the barrell he could sense the tension in the air. Ishkur was looking at him sternly. Gwerr said nothing, but after laying the barrell in the middle of the tent he took his axe and hewed the top open. The splinters of wood spread all around and considerable amounts of ale splushed over to the mat. As he reached out for a goblet that was lying on the table near him he finally smiled to Ishkur. “Okay mate, you may be becoming a nimcompoop, but whatever. You’re my mate anyhow. Let’s drink!” He filled the goblet from the barrell and handed it towards Ishkur.

[Durelin]

Adnan

“No! What do you think you can do out there, except finish getting yourself killed? Sit down and let me fix you up. Please!”

Finish… The word bounced through Adnan’s head roughly, and in his dizziness he could do nothing but obey Athwen’s command. His vision moving in and out of focus, he looked down at his wounded hand for the first time. Even though it was wrapped in makeshift bandages, he could feel his stomach curdle. The cloth was soaked thick with blood. He stared at it, thinking that it should hurt more, even willing it to hurt. The numbness was worse than pain. At least pain let him know that something was still there. But he knew…he knew parts of it were missing. Parts of him.

Adnan could not say a word, and Athwen wasn’t about to encourage him to. There would be no arguing now. The young man watched Khamir walk away, and then suddenly the tears came. He tried to hide them, and hold them in, but it was no use. The water silently flowed from his eyes, but he watched Athwen start unwrapping the bandages around his hand steadily. His nausea lessened, and his vision seemed to be correcting itself better. The cloud around his head no longer seemed so foreboding.

But the tears still came. He closed his eyes to try and force them back in, but in his mind’s eye he was faced with the bloody image of the man he… Adnan snapped his eyes back open, only to look down upon his naked hand caked in a sickly mix of wet and dry blood, and see and count only one…two…three fingers…

Then all went dark.

~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~

Khamir

Neither the slaves nor the slavers fought by any rules, and both were equally as ruthless. For the slaves, this battle was about survival, and they would do whatever they had to in order to maintain their existence as now free men: that they had an abundance of hatred for their enemy truly meant they would do anything and everything in their means to stop them. For the slavers, it was all about money, about power, about pride. The hatred was thick on both sides, but the slaves still outnumbered the slavers, even if only barely.

Khamir, Nasim, and Gamal fought together, Khamir and Nasim taking on a slaver together while Nasim guarded their rear. Nasim, clearly to Khamir’s eye the sharpest shot of the three, at least, wielded a simple sling, but did a great deal of damage with it. An Easterling on horseback could not land a strike on him or the two slaves he fought with, as he launched dense, rough edged stones at the slaver, pinpointing vulnerable locations, and stinging the horse’s skin when he needed to, causing it to rear up and dance quickly away from Nasim and the others, its eyes wild with fear.

Khamir waited for a moment’s breath simply to aim adequately as Gamal did his best to keep the horseman the two faced busy with his spear. The man was tall and had a long reach, and he had crafted his spear himself of thick wood. He had spent weeks looking for the proper piece of wood, and had spent just as many weeks shaping the weapon. The stone shard that served as a spearhead, though primitive, served well enough. Having taken as long as he could risk, Khamir launched one of his two remaining throwing daggers at the slaver. The man went down, and Gamal was quick to jump on him, thrusting his spear down with all the force of his body behind it. Khamir was just as quick to attack, bring his foot down firmly on the man’s head. Gamal’s weapon ran true, and impaled the man in the throat, sneaking in between the metal plates that were supposed to protect him.

As Khamir pulled his dagger out of the man’s right shoulder, he found himself with a moment to scan the battlefield. He saw familiar faces, but not as many as he would have liked. And not the one he was looking for. He did not have time to think of Shae further, as Gamal had wrenched his spear free of the slaver corpse, and the two then raced over to help Nasim with another gold-plated enemy. But the one armed man fought with more fervor to bring down this man quickly, as the feeling that he was racing against time increased in him.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

As they rode with caution toward the back of the camp, Dirand recited a morbid tally, identifying those dead or wounded they passed, and in doing so quickly spied a dark shadow slipping steadily around those engaged in battle, though he could not tell for certain who it was. The old man lifted his sword, silently pointing the figure out to the sharp eyed hobbit who sat in front of him, and who squinted down the length of the blade raised so close to his cheek, before extending his view past it and through the haze. Carl soon saw that a man, with boots and rather more substantial clothing than that of his companion, was headed straight for the cluster of boulders where the hobbit knew so many of the vulnerable in his group lay hidden. His gait was a swagger that was altogether unfamiliar.

Pulling hard on the left rein, Carl succeeded in changing the horse’s direction, and headed now for the stealthy figure, hoping to run him off. But the slaver, who sensed their approach, and who turned to face them, seemed not in the least bothered by this new development, but firmly stood his ground, as the horse bore down on him. “What are you doing?” the old man whispered urgently, and the hobbit explained that the shadow was in fact, the enemy. “Well I'll be confounded, if that slaver doesn't think we are one of his own!” Dirand exclaimed. This came as a painful revelation to Carl, who realized in a flash that the slaver wouldn't be alarmed by their approach, and that they might actually get very close. Dropping the reins, Carl quickly ducked his head as he unslung the bow from his shoulder.

The hobbit had had no practice shooting from horseback, and struggled to fit arrow to string while being jostled about like a sheep carried to market. Finally ready he raised the bow, but before he could shoot he heard the man in front of him bark something. The horse evidently heard it too, for his ears pricked forward listening as he slowed considerably. “Oh, this is not going to be good, not by a fair margin,” Carl groaned. Dirand too, steeled himself. And letting go his iron grip on the back of the saddle, the grizzled man hunkered down clutching his curved sword with both hands.

At some point the slaver must have grown leery, for he would not be still long enough to let Carl get him clearly in his sites. And he repeatedly called to the horse keeping himself directly in front of it, so that Carl dare not let an arrow loose. When they were but a yard or two away, the horse stopped, and kick as he would, the hobbit could not budge him. Looking up Carl saw the slaver poised with a long knife in his hand, first appearing on this side of the horse's head and then on the other. He quickly took a shot, but missed, and before he could grasp another arrow the slaver sprang at him. Carl tipped his bow down, ramming it unto the slaver's shoulder. The man paused, letting his glance flickered away from the hobbit briefly, but Carl dare not follow his gaze, lest he spring on them again.

As the hobbit pulled back his bow, he heard the ringing of steel behind him. Quickly gathering the reins in one hand, he managed to cause the horse to turn, forcing the slaver and this new attacker onto the same side of them. Carl who had no time to unsheath his knife or even to think, kept busy worrying the men with the end of his bow, while Dirand slashed at them with his sword, catching them with the flat of it more often than not as the horse shifted nervously beneath them. It was only a matter of time before Carl bow was caught, and the little farmer was dragged from his high perch. But letting go of it he rolled between the horse's legs to the other side, and as he turned to stand up, he saw another stout fighter descending on them. Wheeling around, he slapped the horse's flank as hard as he could, thinking to send both the horse and the old man off toward the boulders. But instead the horse reared, pawing the air before coming down with a sickening thud as he landed squarely on the man who had caught hold of his reins, the lesser of the two slavers. Dirand, who had fallen, scuttled away drawing the attention of the second slaver, who followed him. The old man was bravely brandishing his sword as the slaver closed in for the kill. In a twinkling Carl had drawn his knife and attacked. Throwing himself at the slaver's legs, he slit the man's hamstrings, and was still clinging to them as the slaver collapsed to the ground. Dirand scrambled to his feet, quickly driving his sword home.

"There is one more," Carl panted breathlessly. Springing up, he looked around. "A very big fellow too.... Should have reach us by now. Now where has he got to, Dirand? I've grown to dislike surprises!" Suddenly, the horse tossed his head, shuffling sideways. And Carl looked at Dirand, putting his finger up to his lips as he crept silently toward the beast.

[Nogrod]

Hadith and Johari

Hadith had taken the pain bravely enough when Athwen had examined and cleaned his wound but the stiching was too much for him to bear. He fell into a numb darkness.

Next thing he became aware of was a familiar voice talking to him.
“You had better not die, Hadith,” it told him, "You'd better not."

In the depths of his faint consciousness there formed a thought. Johari?

Slowly Hadith opened his eyes. The pain that had been gone came back at the instant he realised being alive again. It was Johari. Hadith recognised her immediately. He tried to smile but the pain twisted his face to an awkward grin.

His jaws were sore and his lips were so dry that it was hard to utter anything, but finally he managed to mumble quietly “I’m allright”.

For a fleeting moment Hadith thought seeing something like relief in Johari’s eyes but that was gone in a wink of an eye. He was confused but tried to pull himself together nevertheless. He was so happy to see Johari alive but at the same time he wasn’t sure if he should say it or how she would react if he would say it. Somehow just her presence felt comforting and he wouldn’t wish to lose that comfort by saying anything stupid.

The silence grew thicker and neither of them was actually looking at each other in the eye. Hadith laid on his back and Johari was on her knees right next to him.

“Good to see you safe and sound, Johari”, Hadith said at last, immediately realising how stupid that sentence sounded in the circumstances. Johari leaned back away from him.

“Don’t go, Johari!” Hadith called her trying to rise up and taking a firm grip of her hand. “Please don’t go...” It was hard for him to find the words. It was hard for him even to understand what he was meaning or thinking in the first place. “I mean, ... I mean, I was worried about you. You aren’t hurt or anything?” At the same time his grip loosened and Johari pulled her hand away as Hadith fell back on his back again the few inches he had managed to rise up by hanging on Johari’s hand.

“No, I’m fine”, she replied tightly.

“Good”, Hadith managed to say biting his lips. He was feeling the pain again. The tumult of the battle echoed from somewhere. Hadith fought against the tears. I should be fighting with my fellows, I should not act this stupidly, I should be braver, I should be... Then his mind got lost again.