Last Ride of the Heir RPG

[piosenniel]

Dunlendings

Dawn was near. A pale light crept through the trees, illuminating the figures asleep by the near dead fire. It was quiet; no sound of birds readying for the day – save for the deep, echoing croak of a lone raven somewhere among the towering trees to the north. A single figure sat huddled near the last embers, hood shadowing his face, head nodding toward sleep. His companions, there were eight of them, lay near – sleeping fitfully on the ground as if pursued by bad dreamings.

Wulfson watched them from his vantage point atop a high rocky outcropping to the south of the road. His tall, lanky form was pressed low against the flat surface, his dark eyes scanning the meager camp for any booty worth taking. He put his finger to his lips as his younger brother, Ulrich joined him. Both watched the scene for a few moments then withdrew to their cold camp a little ways away.

Four others welcomed them back – all tall men, swarthy in appearance, with long, braided black hair. Dunlendings, the rangers and Elves would have termed them. But in their own language they called themselves the Men of the White Horned Mountains, and they bore a deep and abiding anger against those who had displaced them from their homeland – the Rohirrim and the men of Gondor who had given away their land to the horse farmers. And any who aided these two groups were also fair game in their belief.

‘What did you see?’ one of them asked Wulfson, their leader. ‘How many and what kind gather about their little fire?’ asked another.

‘Nine there are,’ answered Ulrich, his eyes on his brother. ‘Two of the Fair Folk,’ continued Wulfson, ‘and seven of those meddling Rangers.’ He spat the last word out in anger. ‘They’re camped just off the Great Road. They look worn out, as if from battle.’

There were low grumblings at this turn of events. The group had been traveling along the road, beneath the cover of the trees for some time, bound for Breeland. A fine group of ten horses had been ‘obtained’ from an unfortunate farmer on the outskirts of the Mark, and they were now bound for sale to certain men in the woods of Breeland who would pay well for them.

‘Shall we head further south to avoid them?’ asked Ulrich, looking to his brother for direction.

A feral light rose in Wolfson’s eyes, and he shook his head ‘no’. ‘We are well rested and well armed and horsed,’ he said with a toothy grin. Pulling his long, double bladed knife from its sheath, he kissed it. ‘Why should we run? Let them run, instead. And our blades taste their blood when we catch them.’

Silently, the others drew their own knives and touched the pommel of each to his. Then two were sent to watch the Elves and Rangers and report back on their activities. The others packed up their few belongings and saw to the horses.

‘We’ll ride ahead to the marshlands before the Last Bridge. There are some rocky outcroppings there, thick with bushes to shield us from view. We’ll ambush them there. Take what we can from them.’

‘And kill them?’ asked an older fellow, who’d lost one eye in years past in an encounter with a Ranger.

Wulfson’s lips drew back in a gruesome smile, showing his ragged yellow teeth. ‘Kill them all . . . the Elves, too . . .’

[Mad Baggins]

Beroth slept fitfully. His dreams were full of trolls and the lifeless bodies of his two companions, their eyes staring sorrowfully at the red sky. Your time has come! a voice screamed, and Beroth jerked awake. His skin was drenched in a cold sweat and he was quivering. Someone was shaking his shoulder.

"Beroth, it's your watch," he said. "I'm sorry if I startled you."

"Oh...no, no you didn't," he replied, trying to stop trembling. He rose from his bed, shaking off the grip of sleep, and crossed his arms, hiding his hands. His awakener (he could not see his face for the darkness) gave him a strange look and asked, "Beroth? Are you all right?"

"Yes...I just had a dream. It was quite vivid and for a moment --" He gave a hoarse laugh. "For a moment, I thought it was reality. But I'm fine now."

The person put a hand on his shoulder, then turned and walked away towards his gear, singing softly. Beroth smiled and sat down, yawning. A movement upon an outcrop to the south caught his eye, but when he turned swiftly to look, nothing was there. He shook his head, thinking, That dream has made me become skittish. I must calm down.

He yawned again and shivered. He drew his hood over his head and poked at the fire with a long, pointed stick of ash. The chilly night woke him up quickly enough, and Beroth kept himself awake throughout his watch. Soon the eastern sky grew paler, and Beroth realized how fast the time had slipped by. He roused the others and was greeted by a few good-natured grumbles. Soon they were all wide awake and nibbling on a quick breakfast.

After everyone had eaten, Arathorn led them west on the road. Beroth found himself glancing at the place he thought he had seen the movement. He had a feeling that he was being watched, but he shrugged it off as leftover uneasiness from the battle with the trolls. To ease his mind, Beroth began to sing.

[piosenniel]

The Dunlending dog lends its voice to Beroth’s song . . .

The two Dunlendings watched from their vantage point as the group of Rangers and Elves fixed a meager morning meal, and then gathering their possessions, started off down the road. They noted that it was one of the men, and not the Elves, who was the leader of the group. “Arathorn”, they heard someone call him.

From the cover of the bushes and trees set off from the sides of the road, the two outlaws followed at a distance from the center of the group. With them were two of their great hunting dogs, said to be bred from the wolves that lived in what was once their people’s homeland. One of the men in the group they watched had begun to sing. In a wavering, thin voice he had started his song, and at the nods and smiles of his companions, his voice gathered strength.

The dogs twitched their ears at this curious sound and growled low to each other. One of them, thinking to join in the odd howling, raised his own voce in a long, drawn out howl of his own, which was quickly silenced by his owner . . .

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Owacyn jumped out of his bed as he heard the howling of the dog, within seconds Arathorn too was standing with weapon drawn. Owacyn had a look of fear slightly embedded in his face. "What is it?" whispered Arathorn?, "That howl...I know that howl...that's a dunelending hound!" Owacyn replied back. Arathorn looked puzzled. "Owacyn, we've just fought how many trolls?" and you're scared of a dog?", Owacyn looked at Arathorn. "Trolls are slow and stupid, these dogs are almost unbelieveably fast...and deadly...about the size of a wolf..."

Arathorn gulped slightly, "And how many are there?" Owacyn hook his head, "I only heard one...but we should be careful, there could be many more..." Arathorn shook his head, "What a foolhardy venture this is turning out to be, eh? Owacyn?"

[Saraphim]

Elrohir had woken before the howl, but a grogginess from extreme fatigue had kept him from immediatly finding his bearings as a good night's sleep would have afforded him.

Most of the others were already awake. Elrohir looked down at his brother, who was still asleep with a cloak over his head. A well placed kick sent Elrohir's older twin into action, and a snarky comment was silenced when a second howl tore the area.

Elrohir looked to Arathorn.

"Well?" he asked," What do we do now?"
But he knew the answer and was already fitting his bow with an arrow.

[astarielle]

The day passed slowly as Elladan's eyes tracked the movements of the sun with his eyes. "The star of the day seems to tarry in its long journey more so today" he said no no-one in particular as the group, still anxious from the events earlier that day, continued along the road. Minutes seemed like hours, and hours like days to both elves and men alike.

The group was walking quietly along the road, everyone trying not to listen too closely for strange sounds but inevitably doing so. The previously high moral now seemed stricken with melancholy and uncertainty for the future. Stopping only briefly for meals the companions made quick progress along the road. Not soon enough did night fall and sleep could soon forget the troubles of the day.

Elladan remained on watch tuning his hears to the slighest sound and his eyes to the slighest change of shadow. The murmering wind whipped up the flames of the fire and sent embers crackling far into the distance. The grass played its mournful song as the lingering sounds of the day disappeared as night grew and cast its shadow.

[piosenniel]

A day later -

The Attack at the Bridge . . .

The two Dunlendings trailed alongside the slow moving Rangers and Elves keeping well out of sight. It had been two days since they’d first come upon them, and the group seemed to have some idea that they were being tracked. Though, the Dunlendings took especial care now to keep their dogs quiet and them selves well hidden behind the trees and bushes that lined the road.

As the seven Rangers and two Elves drew in sight of The Last Bridge, their spirits seemed to lift a bit. Their stride lengthened and their eyes were now fixed on the passage across the River Hoarwell. The two Dunlendings who were tracking them pulled silently away and rode quickly away to where their fellows awaited,

Hidden three to each side of the road behind a copse of trees on one side and above on a rocky outcropping to the other, the Dunlendings watched the approach of the men and Elves with great anticipation. As the last of the men reached the small rocky cairn the Dunlendings had put near the road to guage the moment of attack, The Wild Men and their four great hunting dogs swept down and out from their hiding places with a great cry. Wolvish grins on their faces, swords and lances raised in readiness they charged the Rangers and Elves from both sides and behind.

Ulrich led the attack on the hated Rangers from the rear. He spurred his horse in, his two great dogs running alongside, their lips pulled back in a snarl from their sharp, yellowed teeth. The first man to fall was the Ranger, Eldin. He took Eldin’s lance in his left shoulder and stumbled back. Ulrich’s female dog saw her opportunity and was on him in a flash of fur and fang . . .