Outracing the Flames RPG

[Tevildo]

There was a brief discussion and, within a few moments, everyone had agreed it might be wise for the group to split up. No one wanted to spend more time in this wretched place than was absolutely necessary.

Before the party split up, Dorran looked over his shoulder at Brand and, lowering his voice, hastily explained. "Maybe Incana's right. Maybe we should go in twos. But right now I need to go off on my own. I'm sorry. But I wouldn't be very good company for anyone, and I couldn't even promise to be a good protector. There are things I need to do and see by myself. I'll be back in a little while."

The sight and smell of so many Orcs had awakened hard memories in Dorran and not even the prospect of being with Incana could stand up against the old shadows. He had the strangest feeling that someone or something was waiting for him within the tangled ruins of this village, and he must go out to meet that memory. Struggling to push back the panic that was threatening to paralyze him, Dorran decided to take immediate action. Anything was better than standing and doing nothing. Perhaps he could find them some extra horses. Without even waiting for an answer from Brand, he quickly walked off on his own. He hoped Incana would understand or that he'd at least have the chance to explain and make amends for what looked like very rude behavior.

Dorran sprinted off towards the remains of what appeared to be the largest building in town: a small Inn and an adjoining stable. He had hoped to find a horse or two still hanging about the stables. Yet everywhere he looked, he saw only signs of death. Half the structure was charred and smoking. The roof was caved in and tangled piles of Orc and human bodies littered the ground. He could not take his eyes off those bodies. He stood silent and immobile, unable to pull away.

Forcing himself to move, he came around to the stableyard and, seeing no living horses here, began to feel very foolish for having run off on his own. He pushed through the rubble at the far end of the yard and was rewarded with the sight of an even larger group of dead Orcs. On the ground, he saw the mutilated corpse of a young boy, no older than himself, a broken pitchfork still clenched in his fist; he'd apparently died trying to push open the door to let the horses escape. The lad had been killed by an Orc who had met his own bloody fate at the hands of another townsman, perhaps the father or older brother of the dead stable boy. Dorran turned aside, gripping his sides tightly, and began to retch, awkwardly falling to his knees.

As he did so his eyes caught sight of something so horrible and unexpected that it rocked him to the bottom of his heart. Lord Aldwulf had told them that the Orcs were attacking from the north. All those he'd seen had worn the ragged livery and insignia of the common Orc soldier. This one , however, and several beside him were very different. He reached over, grabbed the shield, and cradled it near his body. Then, in utter disbelief, he saw something gleam about the neck of the Orc that he'd never thought to see again. He ripped off the cord, discarded the rest of the attachments, and stuffed just one thing into his pocket. As he stared intently at the dead figure, the ugly face leered back at Dorran, and, with a shock of recognition, the lad remembered something he would have preferred to forget.

"Brand, Brand," Dorran yelled and raced back to where he'd left the rest of the group. "I must speak with you now. It is important." He grabbed Brand by the arm and yanked him to the side. "Lord Aldwulf was wrong. Or at least he knew only half the story. These are not common pillaging Orcs. Or at least some of them aren't. Look at this. It is far worse than we had imagined." Dorran thrust the shield into Brand's hand. "I tell you. This is the insignia of those Orcs who directly serve the Dark Lord. They dwell in the land of shadows and run the large plantations. They are cruel taskmasters chosen for their ability to inflict pain. These are no mere marauders, I tell you. They have been sent out by someone, perhaps the Dark Lord himself or one of those who directly serve him."

Dorran's voice dropped even lower, "The one who bore this shield went by the name of Hulgruth. He was in charge of the slaves on the plantation to the west of the great mountain. I know this for a fact"

Visibly shaken and upset, Dorran shuddered, his fingers drifting down to feel the outline of the small medallion he'd hidden within his pocket.

[Farael]

Osmod and Fion were talking quite animatedly as they approached the village. In spite of what Fion seemed to think, Osmod was quite interested on how to deal with geese rather than cows.

”You think your job is bad, my friend? Maybe when we come back we should spend some time at each other’s farm. I wouldn’t mind dealing with an animal I can actually prod into listening to me. Have you ever tried moving a cow when her heart is set on staying in place? Not to mention when her feet get trapped in the muddy bank of a river. Ha! No, Fion I much rather hear the Chronicles of Fion and his Amazing Poultry than reciting my long list of Cowly-mishaps.”

With a chuckle he looked ahead, at the quickly approaching town. Something did not seem right and at first he could put his finger on what it was. Everything seemed so quiet, so empty. He noticed Sythric was calling him over and at last he realized. The town was empty.

Following the old rider’s advice, Osmod led the group towards the centre of the abandoned town. Houses gaped with wide open doors to those riders who dared disturb their slumber. Here and there the things that had been left behind served as painful reminders of the people that had not so long ago walked those same streets.

They got to the central square and Osmod called for a halt. He could see his own thoughts reflected on everyone’s faces. Sythric seemed to be the most affected of them all and so Osmod felt it was his duty to say the words that needed to be said.

“This is a most painful reminder of what we are facing, my friends. I am not a born speaker any more than I am a born leader, but I think we will all agree of our need to make haste from this moment on.” He looked at the sun and guessed the time to be slightly past mid-day. ”By this time, Bregoware looks like this town. Our family and friends are following the way we have been taking and by now I would risk to say they have reached where we stopped for lunch yesterday. They are moving much more slowly than us and every day we spend riding takes us further away from them. I can understand why any of you may want to turn back and join those they care about. I will not stop you. But I will tell you that from now on we will need each and every one of us to carry out our task.”

Osmod took time to look into everyone’s eyes, both asking them to follow him across the river and trying to assure them that he would not oppose them should they decide to turn back. Maybe he was trying to do too much.

[Arry]

Wulfham

The Dark Lord . . . now there was a name to conjure his worst childhood fears. There were dark tales of this monster who dwelt in the land of shadows to the south and east. Across from Minas Tirith, it was said . . . with only the width of the River to stand between them. Even now, as he was a grown man, he could feel a cold chill race up his back and his knees tremble at the fabled demon now made real by Dorran’s words.

Brand clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder both to assure Dorran as he could and to reassure himself by with the feel of a friend’s real presence beneath his hand. He wondered at how Dorran had known the name of the dead Orc, or even that there were plantations in the shadowed land. And the mountain, what was that the he spoke of? Brand had never been more than twenty leagues from his village. Where had Dorran come from that he had seen such wretched and vile things?

He moved his hand then to take shield Dorran had thrust at him. It was ordinary enough in construction, but the very thought that some foul Orc had set it on his arm as he killed the people of the village with his sword or club made him cringe. He dropped the wicked-made thing, watching it as it tumbled to the ground and lay there face up. His eyes traced the insignia upon it . . . the crudely drawn red eye mocked him, and his stomach turned as he thought perhaps it had been painted in blood.

‘It is a filthy thing, Dorran,’ Brand said with a shudder. ‘And I would leave it here, save we should take it as a sign to show the King that the Dark Lord has already pushed this far into our fair land.’ Saying that, he picked up the shield and wrapping it in the singed cloak of a dead townsman, secured it to the back of Lady’s saddle.

---------------

The little group did break into two parties. Incana and Dorran went to search the western half of the village, while Vaenosa and Brand would make their sweep through the eastern half. Brand had seen the dog come walking up behind his horse and look about, its nose sniffing the air, then head toward Incana as if he’d found a long lost friend. It was a moment of ordinary pleasure to see the animal and he thought of his own dog, Patch, whom he’d had to leave behind.

‘He seems to like you,’ he said, smiling toward Incana. She told him the story of finding the dog and in the end it was decided that the hound should go with Incana and Dorran. ‘He’ll be an extra set of eyes and ears, and a good nose for you,’ Brand had said. ‘If he gets too tired or you have to ride, just let him ride astraddle the saddle. I often do that with my own dog when we’ve far to ride.’

‘Vaenosa, let’s you and I ride out to that small cluster of cottages to the southeast . . . the ones just outside the village wall. I’m hoping to find us a spare horse or so . . . and when the raiders passed through, the animals might have gone back to a part of the village that had been hit early and then abandoned by the attackers.

When they got there, it was a small enough area that they could go their separate ways to search and still be in hailing distance of each other. Some of the cottages had been burned, but it looked as if the job had been a hastily done, and there were still a few of the thatched roof dwellings intact.

The dead were not quite as numerous here, and Brand wondered if they had gone into the village center as the attack began, thinking that they would be safer there. A few chickens wandered about the cottages, picking in the dirt; they kept their wary eyes on the two new intruders.

Brand watched as Vaenosa and nay made their way to the opposite side of this small living area. He could see her begin her search through the makeshift lean-to’s that were their stabling areas and through some of the huts still standing. He began to do the same.

As far as he could tell there was no one left alive in this little part of the village. He’d found a bag of oats . . . it would be good for the horses and for him and his companions, too. One ham had been left undisturbed in another hut’s little smoke house. He poked about a few more cottages, then stood out in the open and called to Vaenosa . . . just keeping contact with her so they both might know each other was alright.

In the side yard of the last little cottage he came to, he was surprised to find a garden of late autumn vegetables mostly undisturbed save that it looked as if a single Orc had walked or run heavily though the middle of it in haste . . . the last of the potatoes were still there, kept warm in the ground by small hillocks of straw, and a few neat rows of kale, leeks, and cauliflowers beckoned. There was also a smaller herb garden planted close to the house. Brand recognized only a few – some that his mother used in cooking; some that she used for her salves and potions when someone took ill. But there were others he had no idea if they were edible or poison. He decided to gather only the ones he knew about from his mother’s own garden.

The door to the cottage was open. Brand peeked into the shadowy interior, his ears wide open for any sound; his eyes darting about the ill lit room. It looked quite empty. And there, neatly folded and stacked on a stool just across the room were a number of canvas bags. Brand made his way toward them, intending to use them to carry what vegetables he could harvest . . .

[Undómë]

Bregoware

Meghan


Meghan’s fingers ached from the hard, frightened grip she had taken on the reins. They were cold, too; the blood had left them as it had left her face when they entered the empty village. Arnanaes . . . that is how Sythric had named this town. She rolled the sound of it about on her tongue. She had heard of it, but never come here.

It was much like her own little hamlet. There was the Lord’s mead hall . . . there the forge, now gone cold, where the smith had worked. And little cottages, many of them, dotting the brown grassy plain. Their windows, unshuttered, were like blind eyes staring blankly ahead. For a moment the thought, like dead eyes, had crossed her mind in reference to them. But she pushed it away, not willing to give up hope as yet. The village still stood whole. There were no burnt down dwellings, no dead bodies, as she had heard whispered among those of her townsmen. Other places more outlying than Wulfham had been burned, all slaughtered, destroyed. Rick, cot, and fold! Everything . . .

She kept a little hope in her heart, banking it well against the day this great and awful thing that was beginning would be somehow be ended. That these soulless cottages would once again house life.

And now she was glad that she had kept to her word, and gone on with the others. Her little part for Wulfham and those she loved would be done as best she could. She felt, though, like some small little reed, bent low by a rushing wind . . . and behind that wind would come a fire of such hellish fury she did not know if she would rise to see another welcoming Spring

Meghan turned her gaze to the path directly in front of her; she nodded her head at Osmod’s words, giving her silent consent that she would follow. Kicking her heels lightly into Ash’s flanks, she urged the little mare forward.

‘Rædy!’ she called, coming up along side the man’s horse . . .


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Rædwald


‘Aye, lass, ‘tis a grim site. I knew a number of those who lived here.’ Rædwald sighed. He was glad, though, that she had resolved whatever was in her mind and was riding with them again.

He was about to tell her something of the fellow from whom he’d bought his first billy-goat, when she pulled up quite near and whispered something low to him. She had composed her face so that none might note her discomfort, but the trembling touch of her hand on his arm and the flash of concern in her eyes made him understand the gravity of her request.

‘Of course! Of course! I’ll stick like honey to the comb to you.’ He patted her reassuringly on her hand. ‘Naught will happen and the river will be crossed without a splutter.’ He smiled and eased her into other areas of conversation.

She couldn’t swim . . . he eyed her small frame as they rode through the town. Ah well, he was as easy with water as any fish and more than twice her size. He would see her safely across . . .

[Nogrod]

Bregoware

"I can understand why any of you may want to turn back and join those they care about. I will not stop you. But I will tell you that from now on we will need each and every one of us to carry out our task.”

Osmod's words sounded in Sythrics mind. He totally agreed with him. “Seeing all this, kind of leaves us no options. Our mission seems all the more urgent now. At least some of us have to continue.” Sythric glanced at everyone, with serious look. “I will be one of them, and follow you Osmod, whatever it takes.” He added, and then made Thydrë back up some steps. “The ferry is down there, behind the townhall. I suggest we get there and have some lunch, before crossing the river. I sure wouldn’t like to eat in the middle of this hollow town and all the awe it arouses in me.”

Sythric’s mind got agitated. All the towns he knew at this side of the river: Brechast, Hrunting, Scefing... All those sharing this same ill fate! It was just too much. How he had wandered at the streets of them as a young man, drinking ale with his friends, gotten an eye over a nice girl and all. That had been life. All that lost now! Like he could never get his youth back, he would never even get back those places of his youth. Heorogar’s tavern in Hrunting would be no more, no more than a cold and empty shelf, sheltering only wild dogs and other beasts of the wild. Just wind calling in every now and then. Or Daeghrefn’s inn at Scefing. Just memories, just memories now, with nothing to bring them alive again. And no-one to live those lives and those places anymore. Lost all, totally lost. Sythric was looking into a void. And all the people making for shelter that no-one knew, where it would be, the caravans of refugees as easy pray for any army big enough. Sythric turned away from the others to not show his tears bursting out violently.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

A hint of a breath escaped sharply from between Eostre's teeth. Empty. Of course it was. Abandoned in the fear of the burning coming from beyond, abandoned in the whispered hope that somewhere there might be refuge. Refuge? In Rohan-proper? They were at war!

Who isn't? her mind whispered. Even beyond swords and things some might call sourcery... at war with emotions. Battling words.

She closed her eyes for a moment as they passed into the town, empty shells of buildings surrounding them, the gaping windows eyes staring into their souls. It was intense; painful, such a loss to see that it tightened her breath. A door slammed shut in the bits of wind, the tinkling of some chimes somewhere.

And the ever echoing clatter of their horse's hooves against cobblestones that may never again be touched by human feet. Eostre glanced back at Meghan for a moment; the girl had made it back to the party before they had entered the town. She looked so pale...

And Fionn, just as silent as the rest...

At least some of us will have to continue. She frowned, and her face stayed that way, as if pressed into the expression. Her mother had always told her if she scowled too much, her face would remain pasted into that position. Had her mother spoken of this little village as well? That if it stayed unaware, it would stay that way, all the people fled and leaving it to frown? Leaving it as a ghost?

[Nogrod]

Osmod led them to the river. Sythric stayed somewhere among the last one's, trying to hide his feelings. But then they all saw the situation. There was the rafter’s house, the boathouse, and the quay, where the ferry would be. There were a couple of sheds and a swing that had seen it’s best days long time ago.The swing particularly, gave rise to some more eerie feelings, thinking about the laughter and joy of the children swinging in it, now totally absent. Childrens’ voices echoed around the place as grim reminders of the state of the affairs.

But the ferry was not there! Looking at the other side of the river, they saw it. People had evacuated, leaving the ferry to the west bank of the river! The river was about 100 yards wide on the spot and the currents were a bit milder – that was the reason why the ferry had been built just here in the first place. But surely it would take quite an effort for anyone to swim over – horses anyhow probably couldn’t do it without drifting unforeseen mileages south. There was no sign of the ropes either, the ropes with which you could pull the ferry over. The wheels by which this had been done, lay idly by the quay, stripped naked of the ropes. And getting the ferry going without the ropes, would take at least three people: two for the “oars” and one for steering towards upriver – and thence balancing the currents.

“This is most unwelcome news, I must say.” Said Sythric, breaking the silence to which everyone had fallen. “Although it’s quite natural. No-one would leave a usable ferry to this side of the river, to be destroyed by a random orc-party. And when the next villages and towns reach this spot, they will have able-bodied and stern men enough to swim over, and get the ferry back here – even without the ropes. We surely can’t blame people of this town for being careful with the ferry. But now we are in trouble.”