A Land to Call Their Own RPG

[alaklondewen]

Marcho Bolger

In the days that followed the wolf catastrophe the settlers seemed to be genuinely bound together. Families were helping one another with campsite chores, and the second evening after the fight, everyone pitched in to have a community meal. The ladies prepared a delicious stew from the ingredients each family contributed. Many sang songs and danced, and a barrel of ale was tapped and shared by all. Marcho even pulled out his wooden flute for a rare performance. Overnight, the males took turns, four at a time, standing guard against the surrounding darkness.

Seeing this community-centered spirit raised Marcho’s morale. Thus far, it seemed the group had run into one obstacle after another, and he knew many of his fellow hobbits held him to blame. The Fallohide questioned his decision to lead these innocent folk into the wilderness, but in his heart he knew that if they persevered they would be rewarded beyond their expectations.

Marcho had never considered that all the hobbits would not feel the reward of living in a new place, but Harold Chubb’s heart felt apology lingered in the scout’s mind. Two days Marcho mulled over the Harfoot’s words. In all honesty, the hobbit assumed arrangements would be kept between families, and that those who worked for others would still honor their appropriate contracts. Yet, how could he, as their leader, not consider the impact of pulling families from land they’ve worked without the prospect of their own land in return. He had promised this new place would provide for all of them, not just the wealthy. On the other hand, what ramifications would be brought about by letting those contracts fail? This issue certainly needed some discussion. Marcho was curious as to what the other Fallohide families would think about such a proposal, and he began considering meeting with the fathers. First, he would question his brother-in-law, since they had not discussed the Chubbs comments as of yet.

~*~*~

Third Morning after Wolves: Henry Chubb

Henry shivered under his blanket and curled up into a ball renouncing the arrival of morning. His mother saw him stirring and insisted he rise to help her with packing and breakfast. Most of the settlers were already busy about their wagons and fires, preparing for the new day. An excitement was in the air this morning. Henry had heard the adults talking the night before and they would be crossing the boundary of the new land today, although their destination lay still a few weeks away. The young hobbit was, to a degree, uncertain as to why they were not stopping once they reached their land, but he shared in the anticipation regardless of his understanding.

The Chubbs had a short breakfast and were soon piled onto the cart moving slowly down the road. Henry was pleased to be allowed to ride in the front with his father this morning, and he took advantage to ask his father all about the new land and why they weren’t stopping when they crossed the river. His father told him that they would be able to establish better trade in the White Downs opposed to the area on the other side of the forest. Henry chewed on this a while before asking with whom they would trade. His father mumbled a reply about Big Folk and Elves, and Henry wondered whether Elves liked eggs and milk enough to trade with them. The two, father and son, sat quietly in their own thoughts until Marcho stopped them for lunch.

The morning had become progressively cloudy and a strong wind was picking up. Henry had a hard time keeping his food on his plate and resorted to hunching his shoulders and surrounding his lunch with his entire body to keep it still. This method worked for the remainder of break, and then it was back on the cart for Henry.

His mother requested to sit with his father this time, so he rode in the back for a while before hopping down to walk awhile. They had been on the road for just a couple of hours since their short lunch, when the sound of the rushing water could be heard. Henry tried to get a look, but there were too many wagons in front of them to see very far ahead. This is it, he thought. This is our new land! The young hobbit was finding it difficult to keep his excitement under control.

~*~*~

Melisil’s Post: Alora Whitfoot

Alora, her family, and all the other assortments of Hobbits traveling with them had been traveling hard most of the day so far. The weather had been very windy for almost the whole of it. Just a few hours after lunch had been eaten, the crowd arrived at a river. The wind was getting pretty strong by now.

“What’s this river called, Crispin?” Alora asked.

“Dad said that it’s called the Baranduin Alora.”

“Oh, ok.” Alora said, daydreaming slightly. The wagons began to ride over the bridge; their wagon was near the front of the line. Alora hopped off, and started walking beside the wagon. Alora glanced at the water; even at the start of a storm, it was somehow beautiful. Every wave it made, every ripple it created, pulled Alora closer to it. She stood at the railing of the bridge, leaning over slightly, as to see just a bit more of the wonderful river. She leaned over a bit more, and a bit more again. She leaned through the railings. I wonder what it would be like to be a fish, swimming in the river, she thought to herself. She extended to tiptoe, peering as hard as she could into the water, watching for the fish.

All of a sudden, ‘Splash!!’ Alora’s foot had slipped, and down she fell, off the bridge, and engulfed in the strangely warm feeling water. She screamed as she fell. She screamed again as she surfaced the water. Fear began to overtake her. Alora started kicking her feet and flaying her arms. The water seemed so much less inviting now, the magic had disappeared. “Mommy!” she screamed, as she surfaced again, “Daddy!” She fell under the water again. Alora couldn’t see what anyone was doing up on the bridge. She screamed, and gasped for breath, every chance she could.

~*~*~

Marcho

Marcho heard the frightful scream behind him and pulled his wagon to a screeching halt. Leaping from his wagon, the hobbit shouted an inquiry, but no one was quite sure what had happened. Several hobbits were leaning over the rail of the bridge, and then he saw the lass bobbing in the waves…

[ArwenBaggins]

Crispin let out a slight yelp and forced the old soggy piece of straw from his mouth. He saw little Alora bobbing helplessly in the river, waves rising ever-nearer her curly head.

"Alora!" He shoved the chewing item into his pocket and climbed over the bridge. Yes, his sister was a nuisance, but he couldn't have her drown! Jumping into the water, he pushed his way toward his little sister.

He was not a champion swimmer by no means; he was barely even 'good' at swimming. Right now, however, you could not tell. Crispin flapped and kicked against the current to the hobbit lass. "Alora! Alora! I'm coming, don't worry!" He soon reached the girl, who was flailing aimlessly and sinking fast.

Throwing his arm around her, Crispin struggled toward the shore. "Crispin! I'm scared!" Alora kept muttering, fear growing in Crispin as well. The water was cold and the current was strong...

They finally were within reaching distance of shore. Crispin was about to toss Alora onto the greenish-brown grass when he felt a thick cane around his neck. "Ack!" He flew upon shore, lying coughing and hacking for a moment.

Checking to see if Alora was indeed on shore as well, his eyes fell sharply onto the old Chubb. Great! Now that old goat will get all the recognition for saving 'two young hobbits' when only ONE needed saving! He struggled up from the ground and sat, sopping, in the grass with Alora, who had crawled up next to him.

"You two shouldn't play around! Be more careful, Whitfoots!" The last word was partly sneered, but not too obviously that anyone could hear. Fordogrim hobbled back to his wagon, leaving Crispin huffing angrily next to the bridge.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordogrim stalked away from the Whitfoot children grumblingly angry about the situation. He was glad that the children were all right, but he knew that the Whitfoots were going to blame May and Henry for the accident. Relations between the families had appeared to become better in the last couple of days as Harold had made a concerted effort to make up for the fight; even Kalimac had become somewhat more careful in his dealings with the Chubbs. Between the Whitfoot father and Fordogrim, however, there remained an icy formality – neither one of them had mentioned Kalimac’s attack on the elderly hobbit, nor the accidental assault on Kalimac’s nose with the knobbled cane…Fordogrim gripped the cane tightly in his gnarled hands. The same cane as just saved his fool-headed children he reflected bitterly.

Fordogrim’s mood had been getting steadily worse since the wolf attack and he would have been hard-pressed to explain why. He supposed it had something to do with the pain in his hip, which the attack by Kalimac followed by the scuffle with the wolves had done little to help. Whatever the reason, he had become sullen in aspect and quicker with his tongue than even his family was used to. Even May had come in for some lengthy pieces of unsought ‘advice,’ and it was only through a monumental effort of will that Fordogrim had resisted the urge to tell Marcho everything that he thought of this venture. The scout, perhaps sensing the old hobbit’s mood, had taken to avoiding him whenever possible.

Fordogrim reached Stout and hauled himself up the pony’s side. His friend’s wounds were healing from the wolf attack, but like his master Stout now walked with a bit of a limp which had forced the old hobbit to ride in the cart with his family from time to time to give Stout a rest. This closer proximity had only increased the tensions within the family, but so far no-one had spoken of it. Harold looked over to his father and asked if the Whitfoot children were safe. “Aye, that they are,” Fordogrim replied as gruffly as possible. He did not know why, but since they had left Bree he had saved his foulest moods for his son. “But like as not, those Whitfoots will be a-blaming our Henry and May for that. Fool Whitfoots!” Fordogrim could see his son biting his tongue, and for some reason this only made him angrier. “Where is it we’re at again, anyway son?” he demanded.

“This is the Baranduin River, father. It’s the beginning of the new land we’ve come to live in.”

“The Brandywine, eh? Seems mighty dangerous to me; not the kind of place for sensible hobbits to live” He looked pointedly at where the Whitfoot children were being tended to by their parents.

“It’s the Baranduin,” Harold said. Is that a sigh he just fetched at me? “And we’re not going to live next to the River – we’ve got days and days of travel to go still.”

“Eh! What’s that? Days more to go, you say? Well if there’s days still to go yet, then why is that there crack-brain Marcho making such a ballyhoo about reaching this here Brandywine?” He emphasised the last word, seeking to get a rise out of his son. He did not know why he was spoiling for a fight, but he was. He glared about him at the rest of the Chubbs, waiting for one of them to succumb to his baiting.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Harold could not help but grin when his father called the Baranduin River by the name ‘Brandywine.’ Just yesterday, Marcho had told him that ‘Baranduin’ was an Elvish word that had something to do with the golden brown color of the river. But the muddy waters did look a lot like his favorite mug of foaming ale: what Hobbits call ‘Bralda-hîm’, or loosely ‘Brandywine’ in the common tongue. He’d have to remember that name and pass it along to his friends.

But except for that lone humorous and clever comment, Grandpa Fordo seemed to be even more grumpy and irritated than before. He had snapped at Harold curtly about how “crack-brained Marcho” had made such a fuss about reaching the river when days still remained in their trip. Although Harold had been angry at Marcho for tearing him away from Bree, he was slowly revising his opinion of the Fallohide leader. If it hadn’t been for their rescue by this so-called “crack-brained Marcho”, Harold would not be alive, and neither would his father.

It almost seemed as if Granda was purposely trying to pick a fight with him. For a minute, Harold thought of responding sharply to his father’s whining and teaching him a lesson. He wanted to tell him that Marcho was not a ‘crack-brained leader’, but the one who had enough sense not to race into the forest along with the two of them. Instead, he had carefully rounded up the rest of the Hobbits and formed a rescue team that had made the difference in driving away the wolves.

Maybe, Harold reasoned, it was time for him to start thinking ahead too. Even though Harold was irritated with his father, he bit his tongue and stopped himself from taking up Fordo’s bait and throwing it back at him. Instead, he grinned broadly and said, “Dad, you’re never going to change. The Chubb family will get through this just fine if we can only manage to stay together. We’re tougher than any of those Fallohides.”

Harold reached over and affectionately wrapped his arms around his irascible father. Just maybe, Harold had learned something from this journey after all.

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

Witch-Queen's post for Sarah:

Sarah sat there watching Harold and Fordo. It seemed like they were getting along now and Sarah was not as happy as before. It was because of Fordo that she and Harold wasn't as close. Sarah was not going to set back and watch Grandpa Chubb tear her family apart. She knew that it wouldn't be wise to talk to Grandpa about it now so Sarah decided to wait until Harold had left.

Minutes went by and Harold finally walked away from his father. Sarah thought it would be the perfect time to talk to the old hobbit. The tension between them had to be broken. After all Sarah didn't want the tension to go into her new home when it was made. "Father Chubb is it alright if we speak for a moment." Sarah had a look of concern on her face. Fordo nodded and Sarah proceeded. "Fordo, it seems as if there is some tension between the two of us. Perhaps it is best if we settle our differences. After all it will make the journey more interesting if we did." She didn't want another family fued on her hand. She couldn't stand to have Fordo mad at her since it only seemed to make everyone hate her.

Since the fight between us and the Whitfoots is over for now perhaps Grandpa and I can come to some agreement. If something was to happen, who knows what Grandpa would do to the rest of the family. It is wise that I get everything settled before we end this journey.

[alaklondewen]

Arestevana's Post: Elsa Whitfoot

When she saw both of her children in the river, Elsa’s first thought was to panic. She had too little attention to spare to register surprise when the unoccupied part of her mind realized that this emotion did not immediately take hold. She kept her head long enough to progress to a second, more logical thought. They can't swim. I can’t swim. Then terror set in, and she began fighting her way out of the crowd, trying to reach a point on the bank where she could reach the children.

When she reached the shore, Elsa found her children safe and out of the water, pulled to safety by Mr. Chubb’s cane. She arrived in time to hear a short lecture about safety near a river. When Fordogrim concluded his lecture, Elsa felt inclined to pick up where he had let off. Then she saw her children laying on the river bank, drenched and shivering, and hurried forward to hug them both. Kalimac came up as well, and soon both were comforting the children and trying to dry them off with several towels proffered by families with wagons parked nearby.

Having concluded that her children were all right, Elsa began to relax slightly. She was shaking, having realized how close she had come, once again, to losing both her children. They seemed to have recovered somewhat, and were slightly drier, she noted, but their clothes were thoroughly drenched and very muddy. Elsa led them back to the wagon and found them dry clothes, absently removing a piece of hay from Crispin’s vest pocket as she handed him a fresh shirt. She gave it little thought, her mind occupied. Twice! That’s twice we could have lost them, now. Is this the price of our new land; such constant danger to our children? The new land was a sweet dream, but it will never be worth that much. Perhaps we should go home.

[alaklondewen]

Marcho was relieved the child was safely returned to shore, and he internally noted the hand (or cane) Fordogrim Chubb had in the affair. The old hobbit seemed to be made of tougher stuff than the scout would have originally guessed. Marcho stood back and watched his brother-in-law and Elsa drying their children and hugging them desperately. This was the second time in the last week their children could have been lost, and the scout felt sorry for them both. The Fallohide had expected the journey to be a difficult one, but he had not fully understood how much so until the last few days.

Once the hobbits had returned to their wagons and carts, Marcho tugged on the reigns to his ponies and moved the band on down the road. Crossing the bridge did the hobbit’s heart good, and he couldn’t help grinning as he surveyed the land around him. Sure, he had walked and looked over the area before with his brother, but now the land he saw was their land…his people’s land. The ground was much flatter now and they traveled parallel to another river that had yet had a name he that he knew. The whisper of the water’s movement was music his ears…music he would hear for the next three days. The group would have no problem finding fresh fish for meals and water for drinking now.

The wind persisted for much of the day, but no storm came as the dark clouds had threatened to bring earlier. They halted once before their final camp to let their ponies rest, and finally, as the shadows grew long and the sun was close to failing in the west, Marcho stopped his ponies and directed the others to make camp.

The air was still warm and the hobbits were of a merry mood as they prepared their meals. Some of the younger hobbits sat of the edge of the river bank trying to catch a few fish before the sun was completely gone. A few of the adults spoke freely of their anxiety of the lads being near the water so soon after the little Whitfoot lass almost drowned, but apparently their parents were not so concerned.

Marcho stretched his weary legs out and lay on the bare ground just outside the circle of camp. Looking up he watched the stars pop out from the growing darkness of the sky. This is our sky…our sky, he thought. His dreams were becoming a reality. His people would be able to live their lives peacefully without the interference of the Big Folk. No more, he thought. They wouldn’t live their lives under the thumb of those who were twice their size. They were their own people now.

[Child of the 7th Age]

By the time the Chubbs were clearing the supper dishes, a heavy fog had blanketed the entire camp, veiling the families and their belongings in an eerie haze. Harold had gone off to fill his family's leather water pouches. Everyone was camped beside a gentle tributary that branched off the Baranduin and then ran westward, one that the Hobbits had taken to calling "The Water"

Refilling the bottles and turning back to camp, Harold inched forward with some difficulty since he could see no further than a few inches in front of his nose. The Hobbit shuddered as he heard the screech of a hoot owl, but continued to tramp through the thick underbrush, although he was barely able to make out the path leading towards the camp. By this point, darkness had totally swallowed up the few brave stars that had earlier attempted to shine out from behind a heavy curtain of clouds.

Harold heaved an audible sigh of relief when he finally managed to find his way back to the clearing and saw Sarah seated on the ground waiting for him next to the campfire.. Marcho had already warned the others that he expected them to set out on the road very early in the morning. Most had gone to bed shortly after dinner.

Harold and Sarah were the only two still awake in camp. They sat hand in hand, quietly whispering to each other about the events of the day. Finally, Sarah stretched, yawned and stood up, indicating that she was going off to prepare for bed. Harold puttered around the campfire a few more minutes, extinguishing the last of the glowing cinders and throwing a bit of water and dirt onto the pit to make sure it was entirely cold.

Hastily retreating to the wagon, Sarah yanked a nightgown over her head. She stopped for a moment to unlatch her precious topaz necklace and carefully hung it on the nail that Harold had pounded into the sideboard expressly for this purpose. Soon both Hobbits were asleep in their bedrolls, the same as the other travellers. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Grandpa Fordo who had earlier that evening drawn the short stick and was now supposed to be on sentry duty. Grandpa was patrolling the perimeter of the campsite, armed only with his sharp wits and a cane. His sole companion was his horse Stout who trotted along comfortably beside him.

The day had been long, and Granda's eyes were growing heavy. He sat down for a moment in a comfortable patch of leafy ferns and tall grass, positioning his back against a massive oak. He intended to rise in just a moment to continue his inspection of the camp. But the grass was like velvet, soft and inviting; the crickets sounded their sweet serenade. In the distance, a great owl hooted again, this time in a much gentler tone. Soon, Grandpa's head nodded once and then twice as it fell to the side and grazed against his shoulder. The old Hobbit was sound asleep......


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


The Hobbit camp was arranged in three distinct sections. The Fallohide wagons were drawn together in a circle near the front of the line, on the side of the compound closest to the river. Landowners and forest dwellers, the Fallohides tended to own the larger and faster ponies, and thus had less difficulty keeping up with the line of march. Morever, their proximity to the river gave them the advantage of not having to go so far in order to fill their water skins and lug them back again. The few Stoors among the travellers were positioned in the middle, while the Harfoot families who made up the single largest group of Hobbits, remained at the rear of the procession, set back the farthest from The Water.

A dark shadow slunk in from the east and then squatted in the thick grasses and bracken that lined the base of the hill. Garlin Woolthistle, former citizen of Bree, a rascal and scoundrel to boot, was descended from a long line of burghurs that had once served as proprietors of the Prancing Pony. But that was in another lifetime. Garlin's overfondness for good ale and his well known dislike of the Little Folk had doomed him to failure as a barkeeper at the Inn. He had lost his reputation and most of his possessions, and was finally reduced to earning a living by thievery and other questionable means.

Dressed entirely in black and wearing a hooded cloak pulled low over his face, Garlin hid behind a boulder. He cautiously stood up and peered into the night, trying to get a better look at the long procession of travellers who were camped near The Water. He had actually been following the Hobbits ever since they had crossed the Baranduin River, but always being careful to stay out of sight.

Tonight, he decided, would be a good time to strike. He was very adept at what he did. Garlin reasoned that the stupid Little Folk would never know what hit them. They were all sound asleep and the only sentry on duty, an old man who apparently didn't carry a weapon, was also snoring as well. Garlin reached down and fingered the belt at his side, feeling the outline of his sword hilt and his two throwing daggers. He would rather depend on speed and stealth than brute force but he would use the weapons if it became necessary.

As the shadowy figure slunk into camp, he came to the rear of the procession where the Harfoot families were camped. Quietly he went from wagon to wagon, ransacking the chests and bags that the families had brought with them. He took a trinket or two out of each family's luggage: a brass candlestick, a shiny copper dish, a sharp dagger, a sturdy axe and a host of other small items, none of them terribly valuable. He dropped each one in a cloth sack that he carried on his back. Only when he'd come to the last wagon did he see something that attracted his attention. On a nail at the side of the wagon hung a lovely necklace with a gleeming topaz stone. He grinned at the sight of it. This would make his entire night worthwhile! He hurriedly stuffed it inside his pocket before retreating back to the river. He had confined his activities to the Harfoot families and had never gotten to the other parts of camp where the Stoors and the Fallohides were sleeping.....

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

A little boy in the Whitfoot family stirred nervously in his sleep. He had been having a very bad dream. He bolted upright in bed and shook the sleep out of his eyes. He knew he shouldn't go very far, but he felt he would bust if he didn't get out for a minute. Quietly slinking out of his bedroll, he sprinted down towards the river, taking a quick drink of water and then immediately coming back to his family and slipping under the bedclothes.

The one thing he did not know was that Adelard, the biggest gossip in the entire camp, had spied him running back and forth and begun to wonder what sort of mischief he had gotten into....