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

[Novnarwen]

Profile for Major Character -- Slave escapee


NAME Aedhild

AGE: Unknown, though it is estimated to be between 42-52.

GENDER: Female

RACE: Men

WEAPONS: None, except for a sharp tongue (occasionally) and finger nails.

APPEARANCE Aedhild is a slave in appearance; the sufferings she has endured have scarred her. Her head was once covered with dark brown hair; over the last years though, grey strands of hair have become dominant. Due to blows to her head (punishment for inappropriate behaviour, few months after coming to the plantation), hair growth on the right side, just above the ear, has not occurred. This baldness is particularly visible now as her hair is thinner. Her thin face is dominated by her cool, grey eyes, which are abnormally glossy, giving her a sickly look. They appear to have a certain depth; some would perhaps say they reflected the complexity and insecurities of her character, others would claim they merely reflect her insanity. She has a delicate mouth, nicely formed lips, dull red in colour. Her nose is small and the tip is round and slightly asymmetric. Though her skin is rather dark, she appears pale and sickly. Her cheeks have sunk in, leaving her cheekbones as a prominent feature of her face. Figure wise, Aedhild is skinny and rather short. She is dressed in rags of cheap, brown and green fabric, stained to the unrecognizable by mud and other filth.

PERSONALITY: Aedhild’s personality is heavily dominated by her internal struggles. She has no roots and no or little knowledge about her background and family. Her history, her lack of memories of life without the hardships of slavery at a plantation have mainly, but not necessarily restricted to, led to abnormal and strange behaviour patterns; she assumes roles and characters at different times, not being entirely able to control or comprehend it herself. Sometimes she is violent, indeed a danger to herself, but more importantly however, a danger to others. This type of behaviour is most commonly triggered when exhausted from a day’s work or particularly hungry or cold. Under the extreme conditions she has lived her life, this behaviour has occurred at regular intervals, and though she behaves threateningly and is capable of doing unimaginable things, this has saved her lives on many occasions; the spontaneous and determined character she adopts at the same time was ultimately what managed to get her away from the plantation and slavery.

In addition to this illness or syndrome, she suffers from regular fits, which sometimes results in loss of consciousness. These fits started many years ago, after repetitive blows to the stomach and back regions, and the head. (She was beaten as a punishment for her most inappropriate behaviour (threatening one of the plantations guards), and was almost left to die in the field if it hadn’t been for some of the other slaves taking care of her.) The fits, which come irregularly and without warning, have greatly alarmed her when herself (if she ever really is herself), because they do not seem to cease over time; Aedhild might not be aware of how quickly she can change from being a silent, humble patient, but more importantly a vulnerable person, to an angry, violent (at times completely out of control) and irreversibly determined person, she is aware of the danger of the fits that occasionally occur. This weakness and vulnerability frightens her.

These difficulties have also made other people reserved in her presence; although at most times very absent-minded, Aedhild is not stupid; she is perfectly aware of people’s hesitation in approaching her either in friendship or any other relations. This awareness has made her very vulnerable, and she usually isolates herself, not wanting to be part of a bigger crowd. It also seems that her understanding of other people’s fears and hesitation trigger, if not the fits, than at least the more threatening behaviour patterns.

HISTORY: Aedhild has few memories of life prior to working at the plantations in Mordor. She has counted about twenty seven years at the plantations, but know that she was a grown woman, healthy and youthful, by the time she came to Mordor. Estimated age is in the range of 42-52. Although some features of her appearance bear resemblance to that of the Haradrim, it’s doubtful that she is a ‘full-blood’ Haradrim.

Aedhild remembers awakening by screams of horror. Suddenly, she found herself in the grasp of a horrid creature she had never set her eyes on before. Although there were a couple of people she thought she recognized, she recalls being numb and absolutely dumbfounded, unable to utter a single word; shocked by finding herself in the hands of an Orc, her body sore and aching, Aedhild could not do anything but stand still, unable to comprehend what was happening. Taken to a plantation in the eastern part of the region, she never saw the people she thought she recognized, perhaps knew in what seems to her another lifetime. The days, weeks, years after coming to the plantation have been nothing but hard work. When young, she worked in the fields, seeing to the crops and harvesting during fall. When time caught up with her, she was set to do other work, equally exhausting. During the time at the plantations as a slave, Aedhild has endured hardships that have aged her both mentally and physically.

Escaping from the plantation had been a rather spontaneous action; she and a dozen other slaves were to be transported to a nearby plantation. Although the escape seemed to have been planned by some of the other slaves, Aedhild had not been involved in any of the planning, and even to this day, she suspect that there was a hidden agenda behind their decision not to confide in her with their intentions. Regardless of her ignorance, Aedhild managed to escape with some of the other slaves nevertheless; some failed to escape, either killed by the Orcs who were involved in the transportation, or taken alive, their destiny unknown. Quickly, Aedhild found herself alone. Never in her wildest dreams would she imagine herself on her own. However, outside of the plantation, she was struck by the realisation that slavery had imprinted too many marks on her to be solely depended on herself. With no known roots, the discovery that she had nowhere to go was hard to bear; at one point, Aedhild even thought of going back to the plantation, even if it meant death.

One morning, six weeks after her successful escape, she stumbled upon some footprints, which eventually led her to the caves...

~*~



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Novnarwen's post - Aedhild


"Everywhere! They are everywhere! The devils!" Aedhild shrieked and cursed. It was early morning; the wet grass under her feet witnessed of the damp night air. The sun hadn't even rolled over the horizon, and yet, the ex-slave was up, growling. Her shrilly voice echoed; as the sound of her voice hit the stone walls of the caves, it sent out a wave of roars and noise, awakening the rest of the camp. With a peculiar expression, she jumped up and down, sprang from one side to another, twitching and shaking. The excitement reflected in her eyes seemed to belong to a being of another world; her movements were awkward and alien.

Few of the ex-slaves didn’t know that Aedhild was a highly unusual character. Already from the very beginning, they had noticed that she was different from most other they had stumbled upon in life; not only did she act irresponsibly and without thinking, but it had also become known amongst them that it was impossible to predict how she would respond to any given situation. In some cases, they would find her sitting quietly, completely avoiding eye contact, and keeping silent for hours and in rare cases days at a time. Occasionally on those particular days, she would perhaps mutter a few words, but no one could make out their meaning. Other times however, she would scream, curse, yes, act very much in the same way as she was acting now. These times, she would narrow her eyes suspiciously, walk about, and snap at people who appeared in any way she didn’t like or approve of. Unfortunately for everyone else, no one knew exactly what she did approve of. On these walkabouts, threats would roll any of the ex-slave's way, regardless of whether she had set her eyes on them before or not. The rest of the slaves had come to an agreement; though not spoken out loud, everyone seemed to share the same view on this particular matter; in sheer fright that Aedhild would do harm to anyone, or herself, sharp objects such as knives and daggers were kept from her.

“Lice! They are everywhere!” Bleary eyed and tense with excitement, the woman looked wildly around at the small group of people that surrounded her. Pointing fingers at all of them, she cursed violently, accusing each and every of them of conspiracies; her paranoia seemed endless. “You! You traitor! You have come to give us in, you sneaky scoundrel! Hand us over to them, think you are?!” As she spoke, saliva rained from her mouth. Her voice was cool and desperate, the volume increasing by a notch for every word: “He did this!” she continued, pointing directly toward a bearded youngster. “He spread those foul creatures, sent them to drive me mad! You filthy sc-sc...!!!!” Her words drowned in her screams as she sprang forwards; both her arms outstretched, she aimed for him. Terrified by this extreme behaviour and unexpected turn of events, the man named Eirnar took a few steps back, desperately looking around for a helping hand.

No on knew exactly where Aedhild came from; none of the slaves recognized her from the plantation they'd served, and even Aedhild hadn’t been able to explain in detail where she had worked and about her origins. Of appearance, she was a short, skinny woman, her skin dark, something that definitely could suggest that she was a Haradrim or of similar heritage. Other features gave another impression however, and since most people were growing tired of speculating about other slaves’ origins, Aedhild remained like many others; a slave with no past, who had just recently found freedom, the latter being obviously the most important point of focus. Aedhild was neither remarkably ugly, nor remarkably pretty. Her once perhaps handsome face seemed aged with the hardships she had endured. Her cheekbones had become slightly too prominent in her face during the last couple of years to make her appear beautiful, but her mouth was delicately formed and gave if not a pleasant appearance at least a hint of kindness. Sadly, the pallor of her face was sickly, and her pair of unusually grey, glossy eyes seemed to dominate her face altogether now. As her age was starting to show, her once dark brown hair was thinning with a hurried pace, and the bald spot on the right side of her head seemed to become more and more obvious. Years of abuse and beatings had marked her, more than she would ever come to realise herself.

As she came nearer, she closed her right hand into a fist. Still screaming, she hit him with all her might. It is difficult to say whether it was the power of that particular blow or if it was the shock of being hit by a stranger, a supposed ally, that made Eirnar stagger for a moment; regaining his balance however, he quickly managed to manoeuvre out of her way, avoiding a second blow. With one hand caressing his already red cheek, he grasped a hold of the short woman with the other. Aedhild wailed in horror; she kicked, spat and cursed, trying to loosen the man’s grip; “You traitor! You want to take me back! ”

Their eyes met for second; her grey eyes cool, but still empty of emotions. With a quick blow, Eirnar struck her unconscious. She never heard the man uttering a few words: "That will calm you down." Only those close by could hear the heavy heartedness in the tone of his voice.


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MINOR CHARACTER


Nonarwen's character - ex=slave

NAME: Eirnar

AGE: 29

GENDER: Male

RACE: Man of Gondor

WEAPONS: A rather robust knife he stole from an Orc as he fled. He's also made himself a club/bat-looking object of hard wood.

APPEARANCE: Eirnar is tall and skinny, but yet stout, with broad shoulders. He has a pleasant and friendly face; small, grey eyes, big nose and gloriously red lips. His chin is covered by a short brown beard. Like the other slaves, Eirnar is dressed in rags. He wars a pair of short pants and a grey shirt; on top of it, he wears a long, brown frockcoat of thin fabric.

PERSONALITY: Despite the sufferings he has endured as a slave, Eirnar is considered to be a both positive and outgoing person. Having escaped slavery, he has been given hope for a better future; his sufferings at the plantations have made him realise that he is very lucky to have escaped alive, and he values everything about his new existence, even though life is hard and primitive yet. He has great expectations for the future, and will rather take his own life than go back to being a slave.

Though the Gondorian isn't particularly bright, he is a man of action and very hardworking. Often, he rushes into situations and isn't always able to imagine the consequences of his actions. Sometimes, he isn't as thorough in his work as others perhaps hope he would be. He is on the other hand very humble, and glad to acknowledge his mistakes and do something to make up for them.

HISTORY: During the early years of the war against Sauron, Eirnar and his family were taken from Gondor to serve as slaves at the plantations in Mordor. His parents served at the same plantation as himself, but he was separated from his sister. At first, Eirnar wasn't able to handle his new existence and resisted it. Time after time, he was beaten. Soon enough however, he learned that as long as he was so young and weak resistance wouldn't get him anywhere. Eirnar managed to flee from the plantation some 3-5 years ago (he has lost track of time). He regrets the fact that his mother was too old to be able to follow, that his father died few months before his escape and that his sister seems lost to him forever.



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Durelin, Child - If you want me to change anything, I am happy to rewrite. Just let me know.

Thanks for your patience,
Nova

PS! I will be away a couple of days in early July, and a couple of days late July. I hope that won't be a problem... I should be able to catch up and write at least a post to insert somewhere...

[Durelin]

Nice bio, Novnarwen, and it's really good to see you again!

There's only one issue - the ex-slaves are a gang, you know, a tough bunch, who did routine raids until they ran into the group of slave-escapees. You've mentioned adding something to her history, and perhaps that might fit her into the gang somehow. I'm definitely not saying 'no' to your character, just asking that you fit her into the gang somehow. She could be a woman of any age. The gang's not a horrible bunch. But they're a practical bunch, I'm thinking, and everyone would have had their place until the recent escapees showed up. (Once they showed up, they had all these pesky hapless men, women, and children running around... )

She probably would have been free for a little while at least (and quite possibly years), and would have a kind of place as a part of the 'gang.' And she quite possibly would also be armed with a knife/dagger of some sort, and not be afraid to use it...remember, practical. I don't want you to have to make a great deal of adjustments, so if you need help fitting her in somehow, just let me know.

At least, that's how I see things. Please, strike me down Child if you perceive things differently.

[Orofaniel]

NAME: Reagonn (Ree-a-gonn) Ex-slave

AGE: In his twenties.

RACE: Human

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: An old dagger, and a knife he keeps in his belt at all times.

APPEARANCE: Reagonn is skinny and slim, which gives the impression that he is taller than he really is. He is weak and pale, due to the hard work at the plantation for several years. Reagonn looks far older than he actually is because if his grey eyes which are filled with the horrors and cruelty he has experienced in his life thus far. Reagonn wears an old dirty shirt with several holes and rips, and pants that are too short for him. His boots will no longer stay dry when exposed to water, a clear sign that they are worn-out and in need of replacement. His shabby looking appearance dominated by the scars in his face, and the long busy dark hair, might seem intimidating to some.

PERSONALITY: Reagonn is a quite intelligent and when rested and well he is not easily distracted. Under the cruel circumstances in which he has spent most of his life, he has learned to be observant, a skill proven very advantageous to him in the past. Reagonn does not easily trust people, nor does he feel any loyalty to anyone but himself. He cannot help feeling betrayed, or abandoned by his parents, (although it was never confirmed that they actually did abandon him), thus he cannot let go of the bitterness inside of him. Reagonn is a good speaker and can easily get his ideas across to others.

Reagonn gets frustrated in situations where one ought to keep one’s head cool however, which makes him vulnerable and sometimes even weak.

HISTORY: Reagonn has no memory whatsoever about his origins. He knows that he was taken into slavery as a young child. He does not know anything about his parents, whether they are still alive, living on a plantation, dead or whether they joined the forces of Mordor when Sauron still ruled. Nor does he care. He has always felt this sense of being abandoned by them, yet it cannot be confirmed that they actually did abandon him.

Throughout the years of slavery, he lost track of time, which explains he fact that he does not know his exact age.

Shortly after the fall of Sauron, Reagonn and a younger lad planned their escape from slavery. They managed to flee from the plantation in haste, but to their great despair, they were recaptured shortly after. The younger boy, also called Bornir, had been a close friend of Reagon for several years. However, upon their return to the plantation they were both punished severely – which explains the two scars in Reagan’s face, and several on his back. Although their punishments were considered mild compared with others who for instance had their tongue removed, Bornir passed away due to the infections in his wounds and the blood loss. Of course, Reagonn found it difficult to cope with, as it had been his only and closest friend, thus pledged to revenge his death.

Reagonn had started to plan another escape and the revenge of Bornir’s death, but then just a week later a fire broke out on the plantation. The fire spread quickly to the shelters where the slave slept during the night, and full chaos broke out. Many slaves died due to the heavy smoke, but a handful of slaves decided to take advantage of the situation and managed to sneak out and escape from the plantation. Reagonn of course, was one of them. Being preoccupied by the fire, no one noticed the few slaves that escaped and none of them were caught. They parted however, deciding that it was wisest to go different ways in case they were being followed.

A couple of days later Reagonn met Khamir and a small group of other ex-slaves “hiding” in caves. Reagonn was allowed join them and together they struggle to survive.

Reagonn has not fulfilled the pledge he made after Bornir’s death, yet there is still time…


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Orofaniel's post - Reagonn

There was a blaze of heat. Reagonn awoke in his shelter discovering that it was filled with thick, dark grey smoke. He quickly noticed the wave of panic that spread among the slaves and soon cries of agony and horror filled Reagon’s ears. Still half-asleep, he managed to get up and at this point, his instincts were quite clear: he felt the urge, or moreover the necessity, to escape from this place. Nevertheless, as he got up he could feel the years of labour finally sink in, and he became utterly disorientated and confused. The legs beneath his crippled body now seemed to fail to support him, and he fell slowly to the ground with a short thud.

The blaze was now spreading rapidly, and he could feel his senses weakening as he inhaled the poisonous smoke. Feeling suffocated, he witnessed the masses of slaves running past him as they hurried to get out, he tried to cry out for help, but his voice failed to cut through the loud voices and the sounds of cracking building material. The ceiling in the left corner of the shelter now started collapsing, and Reagonn could see two slaves running as fast as they could to avoid being trapped beneath the burning wood – all in vain. They cried out as the heavy material hit them, and although chaos surrounded him and the air was filled with voices, Reagonn could somehow feel the vibrating silence from the left corner of the shelter. As he crawled further towards the exit, he knew his last minutes had come. Feeling trapped, Reagonn felt helpless and utterly alone. Yet, the situation did not distress him, like it might have distressed others. On the contrary Reagonn now felt somewhat relieved; finally, he was to be realised from the pain…the suffering…the agony in which he had lived for years. Reagonn had waited for this moment.

Nevertheless, the fright that suddenly struck him was not at all unexpected.

“Get up,” someone cried.

Alarmed by this command, he came to his senses, and trying to regain his balance, he stood up. Walking more steadily now, he felt that things were clearer. Almost all the slaves had evacuated by now, yet he could still hear cries, although he could not conclude whether they came from inside the shelter or outside. Reagonn turned and watched the flames surround him and the lifeless bodies on the ground; They were victims of this ruthless fire... In the life-threatening situation, Reagonn did not have much time to think, yet he could not help feeling sorry for these slaves. He had laboured with for many years and now he was witnessing the miserable fate they had faced.

Would this be his destiny as well?

Witnessing this he realised that it was time for his second attempt to escape. Not only from the fire, but from the plantation.

**

The palm of his hand felt sweaty against the pale skin of his face. He was half-asleep, half awake. This dream, which he had dreamt so many times before would not leave him. These shadows, these nightmares, from the plantation tormented him, and continued to confuse him. And always, near fully awaking, he saw the same face…the same smile and the very same expression in front of him – in the redish monstrous flames. A younger self started back at him, almost identical, yet some of his features shared no resemblance with his own, whatsoever. He was around Bornir’s age, his only friend in life whom had been brutally punished by the plantation’s master - yet it wasn’t him. Thinking about Bornir he could felt enraged, yet this time he felt a wave of pure hatred and rage build up inside of him like never before. After that was just the bitterness...The bitterness he was used to.

Who was he? There was no answer, just a blur of confusion, a foggy maze with no beginning or end. More questions rose, only to be forgotten again while silently awaking from this horror of a nightmare. Like so many times before he awoke while clutching his knife and gasping for air. His eyes were wide open filled with dread as he felt the pearls of sweat running down from his forehead.


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Minor Character - Slave escapee

NAME: Liviol (Lii-vi-ol)

AGE: Almost twenty

RACE: Men

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS:He has his wit, his creativity and his fists if needed.

APPEARANCE: His skin is rather dark, yet after having laboured at the plantation for so long, he has grown paler and weaker. He is not as skinny as most of the other slaves though, but he is quite tall. His dark hair reaches his shoulders. Some of his more prominent facial features: high cheekbones and a large chin. He wears an old greyish shirt, and some old pants. In his belt, he used to carry a knife, but it was stolen from him.

PERSONALITY: Liviol is creative, and quite imaginative. However, he likes to keep to himself, having had the experience that this is the only way to keep out of trouble. He is not very well spoken, nor is he very social. He is quite egocentric, as he has learned that it is necessary if he wishes to survive. At times, he might seem paranoid, and ill tempered. Yet, overall, Liviol is not an arrogant person, nor is he evil. He has just spent his life on a plantation and has therefore learned that the only way he will survive is to take care of oneself.




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****

I hope it's Ok. Please do tell me if it needs editing.



Cheers,
Oro

[Regin Hardhammer]

I put up the post for my minor female orc. It's longer than I expected.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Nova - Durelin's suggestions are good ones. I think the revisions should be minor and will only strengthen your character.

And thanks for those dates when you won't be here.

Oro - Looks good. I know your character does not know his exact orgin, but do his looks give us any hint as to where he was originally from? Most of the slaves were likely from Harad or East, but there would have been others dragged there from Rohan, Gondor, or other points to the west.

Also, Oro, do you have any planned vacations this summer?

Tevildo and Regin - Your minor characters look fine.

Nogrod Thanks for giving us a taste. We'll look forward to your return this weekend.

Folwrenand Undomie - It looks as if you are the first ones to complete your two profiles and the post. (You can certainly do a post for your minor character, but it is not required.) Welcome to the game!

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

NAME: Carl “Nibs” Cotton

AGE: born SR 1389, has yet to turn 51 toward the end of the year.

RACE: Hobbit

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: Short knife, a small axe of utilitarian nature and a hunting bow with quiver at his belt. No armor.

APPEARANCE: Thickset and well tanned; Carl’s rough and calloused hands tell of hard work. He has a homespun appearance, wearing trousers of a sturdy brown fabric and open vest of the same. His shirt is a buttery yellow and around his neck is a bit of brightness, a twisted a handkerchief, the color of spring leaves.

Carl is of average hobbit height, with a clean shaven face and an abundance of wavy brown hair, which he keeps cropped so that it falls just short of his earlobes. His eyes are hazel and his lips less than generous and without much color.

A stout Shire pony with the peculiar name of Stumps is his traveling companion, and despite the name and having all his limbs intact, the pony carries Carl’s leather pack, blankets and the rest of the hobbit’s gear. Stumps is a well fed and well muscled creature, reddish in color with a light mane and tail.


PERSONALITY: Carl has a dry sense of humor and is friendly enough. Among his own people he would best be described as a dependable and practical sort. But his close friends know of a well hidden slightly fanciful streak, his suppression of which is to be expected given his place as the youngest son of a farmer known for his common sense.

STRENGTHS: Any strong points are related to his occupation and include agricultural experience, physical strength, endurance and a guarded optimism. But Carl also possesses some skill in hunting, thus having learned the use of a bow.

WEAKNESSES: Chief weakness, besides a sometimes disabling appetite (with its attending ill humor), would be Carl’s obliviousness to, and so apparent disregard of subtle diplomacy.

HISTORY:

Carl Cotton was born in Bywater in the Shire country, where he has lived ever since. He was a fourth son, the fifth and last child born to farmer Tom Cotton and his wife Lily.

As a boy Carl, (who is known as Nibs), as well as his three brothers, developed an abiding friendship with the son of his grandfather’s colleague, a gardener’s son. And together they had shared both in youthful antics and in a love for the land. Though they hadn’t thought on it at the time, these two families had intertwined in the past and were destined to in the future as well, with their friend Samwise marrying Carl’s sister Rosie upon his return from traveling, and Carl’s eldest brother, Tolman, likewise marrying Sam’s sister Marigold.

Now Carl was still in his tweens when Sam had gone off to help Mr. Baggins, and he was there to see it when the Shire was turned on it’s head too. And though his father left him as guard over his mother and sister, rather than have him join in the battle which had quickly followed Sam’s homecoming, he never forgot how fast the tables had been turned once the Shire folk had set their minds to it.

That was in the past, Sam had since become the Mayor, and Carl had turned his thoughts back to working his father’s farm, with his thoughts staying there, for the most part, until a few years ago. Perhaps it started when King Elessar traveled to the northern kingdom, or resulted from the serious talks the Cotton brothers had had with Sam, when the Mayor had begun speaking somewhat wistfully of visiting Gondor. Carl couldn’t be sure.

He did know however, that he had begun thinking about the greater world and it worried him. Deciding it was time to settle down proper, lest this curiosity grab hold of him, he planned to buy a little plot of his own and tie himself securely to it. But confiding his thoughts to Samwise one evening, the mayor suddenly grew thoughtful and requested Carl to hold off a bit, as he had an errand he would like him to undertake first. Thus began another long round of discussions between Sam and the Cottons. And it was during this time that Carl’s eldest brother commented sharply that a Mayor shouldn’t go gallivanting off on long trips when his term was not yet over. Sam looked him squarely in the eyes. “Look here Tom,” the Mayor said. “If the king of Gondor and of Arnor can make a trip to the Brandywine to visit his old friends, I don’t see why the Mayor of the Shire shouldn’t return the favor!” Tom was silent after that, but the roll and gamble of events cast Carl in the role of message runner, and placed his feet on the road to Minas Tirith, with an errand to see if the mayor might pay an extended visit there in the next year or two.

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Hilde Bracegirdle's post - Carl

It had been two weeks now since Carl had hand delivered a rather bulky packet of papers to the Citadel at the top of the city. As it turned out Sam Gamgee’s carefully folded message to King Elessar had also included a letter of introduction for Carl and, as the hobbit also saw, a note addressed to the king and queen in his niece Elanor’s fine script. Carl was surprised when the King had bid him stay as he took his time over their contents, and after exchanging a few words with the hobbit, to ask Carl questions regarding The Thain for the most part, he smiled his gratitude, telling a tall fellow who stood nearby to make arrangements for this special messenger. He was to be made comfortable and stay as long as he wished before returning home.

Perhaps it was the easiest victory that Elessar had ever had, having won the hobbit over unknowingly within minutes, the monarch’s good-natured ways and Sam’s high regard largely contributing. And so Carl was happy to stay, though he asked if it might be on the Pelennor rather than in the city, for the grandeur of Minas Tirith, with its high white walls of cut stone, had nearly taken his breath away when his pony Stumps emerged from the fields to plod up the causeway. And the hobbit had waxed wide-eyed and apprehensive, upon approaching the tall gates.

After having had those two weeks among the farms in the shadow of Mount Mindolluin, Carl had grown somewhat accustomed to his surroundings, settling in nicely. Truly he enjoyed walking through the fields spending his days learning about new crops and the methods used to propagate them. And his host seemed to enjoy showing the newcomer around, slowly loading the hobbit’s baggage down with hardy and exotic seeds to try once he had returned to the Shire.

But at the end of two weeks Carl naturally began wondering just how much longer he should stay. He had half expected that he might be given some message to take back to the Shire, though the King’s response to Sam’s had been quite clear without it. He knew Elessar would be only too happy to have The Mayor and his family make the long journey south to Gondor. And so Carl sat on a stone outside the farmer’s house, figuring, after his large breakfast, just what he should do, when a fine young man in a heavily embroidered uniform appeared, walking briskly up the road. Heading straight for the hobbit, he stopped with his polished boots just within the shadow of Carl's seat. “Master Nibs?” he inquired.

Carl looked up from the boots, amused that the stranger knew the name, one which Sam no doubt had used in his letter of introduction, he replied, “Yes, that would be me,” as he slid off the large stone. He had noted a scroll in the fellow’s hand from a distance, and was feeling rather more cheerful now. The decision over his departure evidently had been made for him. “Is that for me?” he nodded in the direction of the man’s right hand.

The Gondorian handed Carl the scroll. “A message from the King.”

“Ah, I have been waiting for this!” the hobbit announced, taking the missive and placing it in his trouser pocket.

The man’s expression quickly clouded. “You knew of it? But how could you?”

“I’ve eyes and ears you know. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together,” the hobbit remarked. “To be honest, I thought it might have arrived a bit sooner than this.” At that the man looked puzzled.

“But it is still early,” he murmured.

“Never mind,” Carl said hurriedly. “You may assure the King that I will leave just as soon as I gather what I need for the trip.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself, all preparations have already been made,” the messenger informed him, brightening. “I don’t know the full details, only that you will be traveling with a group the King has himself hand picked.”

“Is that right?” Carl said slowly. He hadn’t planned on being in a group, but it did sound like quite an honor, and he didn’t want to make himself look ungrateful by refusing such gracious hospitality. “Where and when am I to meet this group?”

The messenger hesitated. “We have been instructed that the travelers are to gather outside the royal palace shortly before sunrise tomorrow."

“Then I will be there,” Carl said. "Before first light."

“You might want to look over the message, before you set out,” the Gondorian advised in parting. “To see if you have any concerns.”

The hobbit’s face quickly soured. “Don’t you worry about me,” Carl said gruffly, wondering if it was standard Gondorian practice for messengers to read the letters they carried. He withdrew the scroll from its place in his pocket, turning it over in his hands before carrying it inside and placing it gingerly in his pack, unopened.

His host came over wiping his hands on a rag as he looked out the doorway at the straight back and black uniform of the retreating messenger. “I haven’t gotten you in trouble with the king’s men, now have I?” he whispered.

“Oh, no. He'd come here to deliver this,” the hobbit said, reaching back and withdrawing the scroll again to show to his host.

“Aren’t you going to read it then? It looks important.”

“Read it!" Carl was suddenly fiercely indignant. “Does everyone here always read what is placed in their care? I will take it back to The Mayor, and he can read it!”

The Gondorian farmer reached out and lightly tapped his index finger on the black ink of the document saying meekly, ”But that's your name there Carl, and not your Mayor's.”

"It is?" Carl looked at the parchment, his anger dissolving, “For me? But I never learned to...,” The hobbit didn't finish his thought, in truth he was feeling a bit lost, realizing that he would be leaving soon and empty handed. “Here then, would you be kind enough to read it for me? I can’t for myself you see.”

The farmer willingly obliged, and speaking slowly and haltingly his face registered with emotion as the letter went on.

“Mordor? Mordor!” Carl said weakly when the farmer had fallen silent again. “And here I told the man that I’d go, thinking it only back to the Shire.”

“But it is a noble task you are called to do,” his host said. “Those slaves could have been any one of us, or of our kin.”

“Aye,” Carl breathed. “I am honored to be called upon, but just hope I’m up to such important business.”

“You are, and you must be!” the man said. “The King has called you to be.”

Carl nodded, lapsing into thought.

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[Firefoot]

MAJOR CHARACTER -- SLAVE ESCAPEE


NAME: Johari

AGE: 31

RACE: Man

GENDER: Female

WEAPONS: Her fists, fingernails…

APPEARANCE: 5’7”, tough, wiry, and lean. She has medium-toned skin that shows clear signs of having worked as a Mordor slave all her life; her hands are callused and rough. Her hair is dark and coarse and is always held out of her face. She has dark, fierce but wary eyes and an expressive face. Her clothing is simple and worn: breeches, shirt, and tunic. She has no shoes, so her feet are as callused as her hands. Various whip-scars line her body, mostly on her back and the backs of her legs.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Johari is more passionate than intelligent, more prone to fight than work it out with words, and more likely to act first and think later. She tends to be scornful of weakness. The result of this was frequent trouble with those in charge of her. However, this has grown less frequent as she has gotten older; the futility of her own battles against her situation eventually began to wear on her, and she has sunk down into hopelessness and depression. Apathy has numbed the fiercer parts of her personality. She really has no hopes left from her spirited childhood, only determination to find her “son” (see history) and make life better for him.

HISTORY: Johari was born into slavery; however, her mother had been a captured slave from Harad and would often tell her stories of freedom that inspired Johari and gave her hopes that one day she might be free too. But her mother died when she was ten, leaving her to understand the underlying realities of slavery. Sauron was defeated when she was twelve, raising her hopes once more, only to have them come crashing down around her as she realized nothing about her situation had really changed. Always a fighter by nature, this second crashing of her hopes really set in motion her private war (as she thought of it) with the slave holders. After a few encounters with their whips, she tried to be more subtle, but she was too easily provoked into mouthing off to or even, on one or two occasions, physically attacking the slave overseers.

She continued to fight it until she was about 20, at which point the ferocity and frequency of her miniature rebellions began to slack off; she simply had a hard time finding the point of it any more.

At 24, in an odd turn of compassion she noticed a young orphaned boy Kalin and took him under her care. He was never cut out for a slave’s life, however, being rather frail and sickly (although her affection for him rather blinded her to this; she could not believe such weakness in one so close to her), and without her care he probably would have died sooner than he did; he died when she was 28, although she managed to convince herself in her grief that he had not died but escaped this cruel life of slavery as she had always wished to do. Since then, it has been her only desire to find him and make a better life for the two of them.

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Firefoot's post - Johari


Rebellion, they had said. Escape. Johari hadn’t cared about much more than that, not about how the rest of them planned to get out nor even if they would be successful. Only one thought occurred to her: Kalin. Now would be her chance to find him. She didn’t care about the rest of them, but she would escape. She would find him.

There was no hope involved in her determination. Hope was like water, Johari had once decided: once you learn to live with plenty of it, life becomes all the harder without it. And hope died slowly: it was more like a thousand little deaths that wasted you away until you were nothing. Johari had seen it happen in her mother and had experienced it herself; it was better simply to live without hope. Then you were never disappointed, as you surely would be in this forsaken land that killed all hopes. No, her determination resulted from the conviction that eventually she would escape and that she would find him. If not this time, there would be a next time. There would always be a next time.

It was a fact, and therefore required no hope or effort to believe in. It simply was.

The night came. Chaos reigned supreme. Slaves, singly, in pairs, in mobs, all ran, fueled by the hope and promise of freedom. Only some would make it away – only some would survive; the rest, hopes quashed, would be returned to their barracks and to work the next day. Johari did not think of this. She did not think at all. She just ran.

She avoided their dogs, more out of instinct than conscious decision. She did not stay and fight, she did not stop to help the others. She just ran.

Towards the mountains. Kalin was a smart boy. He would have taken refuge there. Rumors even existed that other escaped slaves were living in those mountains; he might have found them. She shifted her course, practically flying through the fields - not caring whether she trampled the growing crops - into the hills beyond: already farther than she had ever traveled in her life. It was only now as she reached this comparative safety that she slowed her pace. Her legs and lungs were burning, and her make-shift pack thumped uncomfortably on her back. She did not stop completely, though, but kept moving, always listening for pursuit behind her. At one point she heard hoof-beats, but she stayed in the shadows and never saw them anyway.

On into the night she walked, never once feeling the ecstatic rush of freedom that might be expected. For her, escape was not the realization of hopes and dreams. Once it might have been; now it was only fact fulfilled.

In the next days, she found a group of escaped slaves and was welcomed into their fold. It did not occur to them that Johari was content, happier even, to travel by herself. She did not feel heartened by their presence; she did not care that they, too, had escaped. She had a purpose, and these ones would not help her with it… especially when they started discussing settling down and hiding in the foothills of the mountains while they decided what to do. Johari already knew what she wanted; she didn’t care what the rest of them did. Nevertheless, she had reluctantly decided to at least stay the night there with them; she wouldn’t get any farther in the dark.

The next morning they found themselves surrounded. Johari quickly realized, as did the rest of the escaped slaves, that these tough-looking strangers were not trying to capture them but help them. Maybe they would know about Kalin – she would certainly be asking…

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MINOR CHARACTER - ORC

Name: Grask

Age: 9

Race: Orc

Gender: Male

Weapons: A long knife that serves him as a sword, purloined off the body of a dead Orc.

Appearance: Around 4’ tall and a little on the thin side; “lanky” is a word he is growing into, with rather long limbs. Only wears a sleeveless tunic. He is perpetually dirty.

Personality/Strengths/Weaknesses: Like most young Orcs, Grask tries to stay relatively unobtrusive among older Orcs to avoid risking their wrath, and tussle amongst themselves to prove or better their fighting abilities (usually without real weapons). Not being particularly burly or strong, Grask tries to avoid these fights mostly; he is quite competent at looking after himself. Definitely more of a follower than a leader, he takes his cues from those around him. He can also be very curious.

History: Grask has no real concept of his own parentage. He has very vague memories of a mother-figure, though he has no real emotional connection to her. He assumes she died, or perhaps just abandoned him at some point; this doesn’t bother him, though, since this is more the norm than the exception in Orkish culture. Other than that, his history is unremarkable and consists really only of day-to-day survival. It was only by chance that he found out about the rebellion at all, but he immediately decided to join them, feeling that a large battle would be in no way beneficial to him.



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~*~*~

That about completes it.

[Orofaniel]

Originally Posted by Child of the 7th Age

Nova
Oro - Looks good. I know your character does not know his exact orgin, but do his looks give us any hint as to where he was originally from? Most of the slaves were likely from Harad or East, but there would have been others dragged there from Rohan, Gondor, or other points to the west.

Also, Oro, do you have any planned vacations this summer?

Oh. Okay. I thought of him as a Harad when writing. I'll edit a bit.

It is likely that I'll be gone all of next week....

Ex-Slaves

Orofaniel - Ex-slave, male - SHORT BIO ONLY NEEDED

Wasn't I supposed to do a slave-escapee?

Doesn't really matter though. Any way you want it. I'm just a bit confused.

[piosenniel]

Unconfuse yourself Oro - I've switched you into your correct category of minor characters -- slave escapee.

~*~ Pio