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

[Durelin]

Vrór

The Dwarf had been anticipating a ‘but’ as soon as he heard the word ‘right’ escape the man’s lips. This time it came in the form of a longer list of what they knew than Vrór had been able to form in his own head. So by the time Aiwendil was finished talking to him, the Dwarf was silently and bitterly accepting that this old man had a sharper mind than him, and beginning to accept that they were heading north. Going north, chasing after one or the other of two rather ambiguous groups. Chasing! That meant a fast pace, which Vrór was certain he was not up for. If only he had accepted a pony for the trip. But he just could not bring himself to sit on a plump little pony with the Hobbit while the others had their strong, large, beautiful – quite large, and very tall, which was of course a problem for the Dwarf – horses.

Suddenly he could hear Carl’s voice, shouting that ‘Miss Athwen’ had found something. The two had gone to scour the place for any last clues. Vrór felt excitement rise in his chest thick enough to choke him. Perhaps this would be a clue that would allow him to put his full heart into this seeming wild goose chase. The Dwarf would believe in the best scouts in all the West when he saw them. Until then, he needed something he could see prior to the need to follow the trail of sixty-five men, women, and children across the wasteland that was Mordor. Something other than the disturbing imagery of a brand, an object that might lead them down a terrible and unexpected path.

Vrór could make out a small stone in Carl’s hand, and then in Lindir’s as it was passed to him. The Elf pointed out some interesting facts about its appearance. Gondor? The Dwarf had thought most of these slaves were from the South and East. And even those in Mordor itself had heard about the great war? It was hard to imagine this land as anything but cut off from the rest of the world. In all truth, it was really a world of its own in Vrór’s mind, and he was sure others held the same mentality as himself. It was another smack in the face for him, and he stood watching the stars around him for a moment or two, full of awe, terror, sadness, even guilt. Had he really thought of abandoning these people to whatever fate awaited them? He recalled what the brand looked like, and imagined how often and in what violent ways it had been used, in what violent was it was meant to be used, it had to be used…

Mordor was not a world separate of his own. Middle-earth did not end before the Ephel Duáth began and start again where they ended. These people were among the Free Peoples of Middle-earth; they all were now that they were free of the terror that was Sauron. And yet they were not free, not free of the bonds of slavery or of the violence. It was a terrifying thought, venturing across Mordor after these slaves. But how much more terrifying was it for them? How much more terror had their lives been filled with? Vrór gripped the head of the work hammer at his side on his belt. It was more natural for him to reach for that than to reach for his axe. And he hoped to use the former much more than the latter.

Stepping over toward Athwen and Carl now that Lindir and the old men had stepped aside to talk in low voices, the Dwarf peered at the stone himself. There was no doubt that was the White Tree – and Vrór had seen it enough since he had arrived at Minas Tirith a good number of years ago. The other symbols he was not familiar with, though he recognized what the Elf had referred to. An odd token to find in this land, even now, long after the defeat of the Dark Lord. Vrór shook his head, thinking of all the children that would never have to know what living under that horror was like. It brought more warmth to his heart than he had felt in days.

“This gladdens my heart,” he said, sharing his feelings as he looked Carl at Athwen both, “to find this here…perhaps there is hope for this land, yet.”

[Tevildo]

It was Athwen who pulled her husband into the group and, taking the stone from Vrór, entrusted it to Dorran. The young man cradled it in his hand and carefully ran his fingers along its etched surface. He stared at the stone intently as if mezmerized, seemingly unable to turn away. Dorran's eyes held a faraway look, as if the man of Rohan was remembering something hidden and secret from his own boyhood past, some tiny spark of life that had persisted even in the bleakness of the Black Lands.

After what seemed like an endless silence, Dorran glanced at his wife and spoke, "I had never thought to see one of these again. I knew men and women who carried such stones with them in their pockets or secured by a leather thong. They carved them at night in the few moments they had for rest. They would take a rock with a sharp edge or sometimes the blade of a scythe to etch and remember what was dearest to them. They made symbols of home or family, usually someone who had been wrenched from them, or sometimes they recorded images from the stories that were told around the campfires.

Dorran shrugged his shoulders, "As to why this was left in the vicinity of the caves, whether by accident or intentionally, I can not say. But I do know that a rock of this type is a token of remembrance. Slaves kept such stones as personal reminders of who they were. But I have also seen slaves leave behind an etched rock as if passing on a dream or tiny seed of hope to someone who might come later. I remember once...." Here Dorran stopped, his words slow and broken. "It was so long ago. A young woman was forcibly taken to another plantation. The last things she did was toss a small rock like this onto the ground. She hoped her son would see it and understand that she had left him the only piece of herself that she could."

"One way or another, that is what this stone represents: something that was too important for someone to forget. So now this becomes our job to bring together the dream and the dreamer. " Dorran turned to Lindir, speaking almost like the child he had once been, "Please, let's take this stone with us. Perhaps we will be able to put it back into the hands of the man or woman who crafted it and even to help that dream come true. That at least would be worth doing."

[Child of the 7th Age]

In the background, Aiwendil could hear the earnest voice of Dorran who was speaking to several of the others, explaining the meaning of the stone that Athwen and Carl had found. His own attention, however, was focused tightly on Rôg. He was careful to memorize the chief points on the map that his friend had sketched in the earth and to embed in his mind each of the landmarks that would mark the way.

When Rôg raised his final question, Aiwendil's answer was sharp and immediate. "Shall you? Of course. Neither of us could live with ourselves if something were to happen. At the very least, you will find out where that....that second colony of bats lives. Who knows how important that information may prove? But you must hurry. Leave now and try to get back before we break camp, although I can't even tell you when that will be. But if you can't get back in time, just meet up with us on the road. You know the route better than I do."

Seeing the worried look on Rôg's face and how the young man still lingered, the istar brusquely reassured him, "Off with you now. Leave the rest to me. I've been around a few years longer than you have. I'll figure out a way to break the news to the others and cover for your absence." Inside Aiwendil was not quite so confident of his ability to do either of these things, but it was clearly imperative that Rôg leave camp as soon as possible. The old man had at least decided that he should probably approach Lindir first, the only other member of the party who understood something of his personal origins. Aiwendil was hopeful that the Elf might possibly accept a vague explanation without a slew of embarrassing questions and simply accept the fact that the istar instinctively knew where they should go. He waved a hand towards Rôg, like a man who shoes off an irritating fly, and indicated to him that he should go.

[Undómë]

Zagra and Mazhg


Zagra stifled a giggle at the sight of the men wolfing down handfuls of the berries. ‘Look, Mazhg! They’re eating sour-berries! Stupid, stupid!’ she whispered. ‘Why would they do that?’

Mazhg snorted as she looked to where her her sister pointed. ‘Well, they’ll learn soon enough, won’t they? When their bellies begin to grumble bad.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out a little dried meat and a leathery concoction of mashed fruits and honey. ‘It’s no wonder they don’t know anything…they never bent their backs in the fields, did they?’ she handed her sister a piece each of meat and berry-leather. ‘Serves ‘em right, the ugly slugs!’

‘Don’t talk about slugs that way!’ Zagra whispered. ‘I like slugs!’ She laughed, seeing her sister’s look. ‘On a stick, roasted!!!’ She laughed aloud, stifling it as some of the others looked at her. ‘Zagra made a joke!’ she whispered, drawing near to her sister.

‘Good one!’ Mazhg clapped her sister on the back and the two hurried on.

«--»

‘Come with me,’ Mazhg said, pulling Zagra to the back of the group. ‘The men are going after the donkeys and maybe a pony.’ She drew her sisters close, whispering. ‘I saw the cook tent, just around to the west. I want something more than meat.’

The two sisters slipped away in the darkness.

Zagra stood watch, her club held ready to thump any who nosed around at the back of the tent. But the slavers, for the most part, were gathered in another part of the camp, yelling and shouting about something. There was no guard at the cook tent, and why should there be? Who would think of intruders there? Mazhg quietly cut the back of the tent, just enough for her to wriggle in and begin to pass out packets of journey bread, a large bag of dried meat, and a basket of small tubers.

[piosenniel]

A slender shadow, long and fleet, rippled across the moon. Or so it might have seemed had one looked up quickly and caught it from the corner of the eye. Then it was gone, dipping down toward the earth, fields of stars winking out and winking on again with its passing . . .

~*~

In the darkness it was difficult to tell how many there were. The slavers were gathered within the bounds of a camp. A score or perhaps a few more. And there on the fringes, like dark ants swarming to a food supply were . . . Orcs. Quiet, efficient Orcs, not attacking, simply plucking out a horse here, donkey there, and slipping into tents . . . foraging . . .

About the grated entrance to what was most likely a pit stood a number of men, arguing. Their eyes and attentions were more on one another than on whatever the pit held.

~*~

Psst!

A small voice quite near the girl’s ear sought her attention.

Azhar, hold on to hope. Help comes . . .

Voices above the pit were louder now. Sharpness mixed with some anger.

Be like a bear in spirit, strong and patient. Help comes . . .

The small voice faded away until naught but the slavers’ voices cut the natural quiet of the night . . .

[Folwren]

“One way or another, that is what this stone represents: something that was too important for someone to forget. So now this becomes our job to bring together the dream and the dreamer.” Dorran’s voice was heavy with emotion and Athwen understood why. She looked silently down at the white stone she had picked up. It lay smooth in her hand, warm now from her own touch, and appearing to glow in the swiftly gathering dimness.

“May I take the stone?” asked a voice at her elbow. “For safe keeping, Miss Athwen?” Athwen turned, half startled. She smiled slightly to see Carl standing there, his hand half raised to take it. She nodded and handed it to him.

“Yes. Do keep it.” She handed it to him freely. He slipped it immediately into his vest pocket. She wondered that he would want to keep it himself. It made no difference to her, but she had expected Carl to be the type of person to leave such things in the hands of someone more obviously in charge - like Lindir or Aiwendil.

Athwen turned back towards her husband. Dorran stood where he had turned to speak with Lindir, but neither the him nor the elf were speaking now. She stepped towards them.

“Does this discovery of mine give us no idea of which direction to go?” she asked. “Can’t we be on our way? We were not planning to stay here, were we, really?”

“I don’t know that we can go anywhere until Rôg returns, Athwen,” Dorran replied, looking back at her.

“Rôg? Where’s he gone? I didn’t notice him leaving. Why did he go?”

“Don’t know exactly, but he left some while ago. I don’t know what we’re doing next.”

They were all silent a moment. Athwen looked over the entire company. Her eyes rested on each face and noted every expression. She tucked them quietly away inside. “Well, while we wait, there will be little harm in getting something ready to eat,” she said quietly. “Will you help me, Dorran?”

[piosenniel]

piosenniel's post


Rôg hurried in to the camp, straightening his tunic, tucking it neatly into his breeches. ‘Aiwendil – where is he?’ he asked as he spied the Elf and ran up to him. Lindir looked askance at him, his grey eyes glimmering with questions left unvoiced as Rôg put an anxious hand on his sleeve. The old man was pointed out and there followed a hasty conference as Rôg huddled with him, his face serious, gestures animated.

~*~

'We have to come to some compromise, beast.' Rôg approached his horse slowly, his eyes fixed on the creature's face. Just as warily, or perhaps more with humor as it's difficult to read a horse's expression, his mount eyed him. 'There is a need for compromise as I must ride you . . . soon and in haste.'

The dun mare flicked her hide seeming to consider his words. She snorted, though in a less unfriendly manner, he decided and nodded her head at him.

He could not tell if it was a dare or a compromise. With a sigh he approached her.


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Folwren's post


Athwen bent over the fire and stirred the stew with a wooden spoon. Steam rose up gently from the open pot and she extended her head just a little bit to get a whiff of the tempting scent. Very soon it would be quite ready for eating. She knocked the spoon against the rim of the pot until most of the water and broth from the stew had fallen away from it and then laid it carefully across the top.

She gathered her skirts and stood up. She looked towards Rôg and Aiwendil, who had sat for some little time together talking. Rôg was standing up now, though, and a last word passed between the two of them before he turned and walked away from camp.

Athwen’s eyes followed him. She saw immediately that he was going to where the horses were picketed for the night. She stepped away from the firelight so that she could see out into the darkness after him.

Rôg slowed his walk down to a very slow approach. From where Athwen stood, she could only see his back, but she could picture his face, and his eyes fixed steadily and warily on his horse. His body was as rigid as a pole and Athwen was inclined to laugh.

Walking quickly but quietly, she followed him and before he had touched his horse, she came to his side.

“Look, most of your problem is the either that you know next to nothing about horses or that you’re afraid of her. If you’re afraid of her, then you’re really not going to get anywhere with her because she knows it and will either take complete advantage of you or will become frightened herself. Now, look. Instead of being shy and slow and entirely too stiff, you need to loosen up a bit and get to know her and let her get to know you.”

She stepped towards the mare’s head and put out one hand towards her nose. She stopped a couple inches short and waited. The horse looked at her a moment and then after a pause stuck her nose forward and nuzzled into Athwen’s cupped hands. Finding nothing, she snorted and drew back. Athwen stepped up directly beside her and slipped her other hand underneath her cheek an fondled the head gently. She stroked the fury face and crooned soft words in the horse’s ear. After a few moments of such attention, the mare grew tired of it and shook her head. Athwen let her go and stepped back.

“Now, Rôg, she’s a gentle animal and won’t hurt you. Come up here and pet her and then once she lets you handle her head as I did, run your hands over her.” She gentle stroked the horse’s neck as she spoke, looking at Rôg all the while.


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piosenniel’s post


Look, most of your problem is the either that you know next to nothing about horses or that you’re afraid of her……you need to loosen up a bit and get to know her and let her get to know you.

Well, there she was…Athwen, that is…looking at him…expectantly. And how was he to handle this, he wondered. Of horses, he knew more than he wanted. And she, the dun mare, knew more of him than any in this little group, save Aiwendil.

She simply did not like him. The mare. And who could blame her really. Seeing as how her kind had been hunted by his sort and eaten. No use trying to explain to her that this was no longer so, of course; the mare again, that is. It was something imprinted so deeply in her that no overtures of gentleness or offer of good fellowship, cooperation, camaraderie would win her over.

‘Well, I do thank you for your kind instruction, Mistress Athwen.’ Rôg gave her a somewhat embarrassed smile and put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘But I haven’t your gift for working with horses, it seems. They simply do not care for me. It’s always been so.’ He shook his head in a decidedly resigned way. ‘The best I can hope for is that when it comes time to ride she will allow it without too much of a struggle.’

Rôg lifted his nose and sniffed appreciatively at the savory smell of the stew. He put out his hand in a gesture of invitation. ‘Perhaps I will feel differently once some of that delicious stew is in my empty belly.’ He glanced round at the mare. ‘And you, of course, feel free to have your own supper. We will resume our negotiations later.’

‘Shall we join the others, Mistress Athwen?’

[Folwren]

A movement from half way across the floor of their prison woke Kwell. He didn’t move for a moment as he tried to think what could have waked him. How long had he slept? An hour. . .maybe. . .he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that things weren’t quite as dark as they had been. A small light was creeping in through the grate above. It was early dawn, he thought, but what had waked him?

He finally lifted his head to look about. In front of him, the stream of water ran. Beyond that, the stone wall of the pit rose up. Kwell carefully shifted, moving over and putting his legs beneath him so he could rise up on his knees. His hands were bound behind him again, and his ankles were tied together, too, constricting his movements. His eyes scanned the small prison and then they lit on Azhar.

She lay in a heap not three yards away. Asleep, apparently, and -

Kwell stared with surprise. The girl was unbound! How had she managed that and why hadn’t she done something about it? But why was she lying like that? She lay half way on her side, one arm out at an uncomfortable looking angle behind her. Her face turned towards the ground, her other arm lying limply before her.

She had to have been the one who woke him, but he couldn’t understand how - if she had been asleep. And what about the ropes that had bound her? They hadn’t. . .they hadn’t killed her? “Azhar?” he said, whispering as loudly as he could. “Azhar? Can you wake up?” There was no answer. Not the slightest stir. He moved towards her, slowly, crawling with tiny movements on his knees. In a little more than thirty seconds, he made it to her side. His hands were bound, so he could not touch her, but he bent over her. Instinct told him something was wrong, but he didn’t know what.

As his face drew near to hers, he could feel the heat radiating up towards him. She was alive, he could see her breathing, but some inward fire burned in her. Slowly he sat up again, concern etched in his face.

He had seen fever in the slaves before. One or two of them would fall into one after some terribly hot day in the field. . .or after they’d been punished severely. . .pain, stress, and weariness combined could cause a weak slave to collapse. Few of them ever survived if the fever was bad. But he had not thought that Azhar was such to break under what had happened. Would she live?

“Azhar,” he said again, and this time his voice was a little louder and stronger, and more desperate. “I didn’t mean it so harshly. Wake up! Please wake up! There’ll be another chance to get out. I’ll help you.” He sat down, edging his weight off his knees, and he pushed himself up against the cold rock wall. What could he do?

The light grew stronger every minute. He slowly let his eyes sweep over their entire prison. He spotted the bundle that Azhar had discovered and for a moment he stared at it. The dimness was still too heavy to see clearly what it was. Kwell felt curiosity prick him dully. Not curious enough to go to the effort of moving himself to it, he decided. He passed it up and went on with his scanning.

His eyes lit on the second bundle. He realized with surprise that it was lying just next to where he had been sleeping.

“What are they?” he muttered. “How’d they get in here?” He moved very slightly. “Mph. . .blast these cursed ropes.” He fell back against the wall and allowed his chin to sink to his chest. What was the good of looking at it? Maybe it was some form of poison and maybe that’s what caused Azhar to become sick. He didn’t know, nor did he care. He only wanted Azhar to wake up and tell him she was alright. . .

[Durelin]

Vrór

Never had Vrór felt so sore after a long days work hoisting, chiseling, scraping, dragging, and hammering. And yet all it had taken to do this was about a half a day spent on one of those beasts. He could still feel the rhythm of the horse moving underneath him, making moving on his own two feet strange, but incredibly refreshing. He had nearly fallen off; he had been in such a rush to dismount. And of course he had refused to let anyone help him.

He had hated to go within ten feet of that animal, but as soon as he gritted his teeth and humbled himself to be hoisted up, Vrór clung to it with all his might, staring wide-eyed as the ground passed by beneath him more quickly than he would have liked. His feet dangled, and he found himself point his toes downward as if they were reaching for the earth that seemed so far away.

But the Dwarf had kept his mouth shut the entire ride. The Elf had been behind them, and the back of Vrór’s neck tingled constantly as if Lindir was watching him to make a move, to mess up, to fall off, or perhaps just to start complaining. Somehow the Dwarf avoided doing all of those things.

A few of his breaths came out as growls now, though, and a few more as groans. He would be feeling these aches even worse in the coming night, not to mention the next day. He could already imagine what he would wake up to…if he even got a chance to settle down for the night.

It had been rather sudden when the Elf called them all to a halt, and pointed out the for now invisible camp with ease. To think they were going to try and infiltrate a camp most of them couldn’t even see. He agreed they should not move any further in daylight, but he hated to think that he wouldn’t be able to get near enough to the camp until the sun was down, and then…well, then there was a whole other visibility issue. Not that he would say anything about that. More than just his entire lower body was sore after this morning’s ride: his ego had been rather bruised as well.

“…but we need a few brave folk to go down and get a closer look at their camp, and try to find out where they've taken the slaves.”

Aiwendil’s words caught the Dwarf’s attention, and secured it tightly. They were going…now? Already? But they had just stopped. And all of them but the elf couldn’t even see the camp that they were supposed to get a closer look of. How did they expect anyone to get near enough in broad daylight to actually see the slaves that had – at least according to Aiwendil’s birds, Vrór supposed – been captured? The old man had just remarked that this was as close as they were going to get before they had any cover from the night. How absurd, but not unlike him, it seemed.

“You're right, my friend. Any takers then? the rest of us will set up camp.”

Vrór cursed himself, and cursed Lindir and the old man. The question just had to be voiced by the Elf. If it had been anyone else, the Dwarf might not feel his sore ego desiring to repair itself somehow, if only through another beating to the rest of his body. But he was thinking selfishly. Staring in the direction Lindir had pointed, hopefully toward the slavers’ camp. Those men were bounty hunters. They were thieves, worse than thieves. They were thieves that worked with men, stole beings with hearts and minds, and sold them. It was akin to selling your own soul, in Vrór’s mind. And these captives…were they really just children? How could any man even fathom keeping a child a prisoner as someone lower than animals, treated as prized possessions, objects rather than living beings.

“I will go,” Vrór found the words escaping from him as a quick bark. He tried not to redden in the face, though he felt in the spotlight now. “A Dwarf can be as quiet as a mouse when he chooses. Not that size has anything to do with it,” he added with a slight grin. He jested in his nervousness.

The next person to speak up was the Hobbit. He seemed just as hesitant as Vrór felt. The Dwarf bowed his head in Carl’s direction, showing his respect and gratitude for accompanying him. All pleasantries flew out of Vrór’s head when Lindir spoke again.

“I’d say a pair is the most we can risk…”

The Elf continued on with some kind of thanks for the two’s bravery, but the Dwarf did not really hear it. He was too busy trying to get over the shock that the only company he would have was the Hobbit. Vrór trusted Carl to be a fine ally in most any situation, but that was not the issue. The issue came down to mere numbers. Two? Of course, any more would mean more of a risk of being caught. And they were the two smallest of the company.

But what would be done if even one of those wicked men caught sight of them? A Dwarf and a Hobbit in Mordor…they’d probably have to take several moments just to believe what they saw, Vrór determined with as much amusement as he could at the moment.

The two wasted little time before they did indeed leave the others to set up camp, both thinking in the back of their minds about how much of a chance there was that they would not be returning there to sleep that night. Would any of them get a chance to rest? It seemed things were on the move, and much faster than they had ever predicted, much less intended.

“To think they send the two smallest members of the Fellowship to do the spying,” Vrór remarked to the Hobbit in a rather flimsy attempt to lighten their spirits. “I’d be offended if I was not the fool who volunteered for this myself.”

He gripped the axe he had exchanged for the hammer at his belt, looking ahead and reminding himself of what lay beyond his sight. At least they would have the hills as cover for a time, though the Dwarf still found it hard to believe they were sneaking up on something they couldn’t even see.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

The two spies scrabbled cautiously from bluff to bluff and pit to pit, carefully working their way to the far point where Lindir had directed them. And though they found that the small brook he had mentioned had long since dried, it still was a great relief to the hobbit when they finally reached it, for not only did it mean that they were now near the camp, but the ancient stream's turbulent spill had carved its meandering way out of the hot sun and deep into the surface of the plain, so that on the eastern side its bed rose quite high undercutting the bank, and he and Vrór could run along it, hidden from the eyes of all.

And run they did, until Carl slowed his pace to a walk, as though he was out of breath. But the truth of it was that as they neared their destination, and hearing the villains’ vile oaths and curses, the hobbit’s heart beat heavily in his chest and he grew afraid that he might be overheard. Carl inched forward as quietly as he could, surprised that he no longer heard Vrór over the steady pounding in his ears. And turning around to check the dwarf’s progress, he found his companion poised a few yards behind, still as a stone with a ready axe in hand. Vrór’s wary eyes searched the top edge of the bank.

By then the hobbit heard the slow grinding crunch of footsteps approaching close by his head. He froze instantly, his breath caught in his throat as his eyes rolled up to see the tip of a dusty boot at the edge of the bank, just an arm’s length away from where he stood. It seemed like an eternity that the boot lingered there, while frantic, disjointed thoughts ran through Carl's mind. At the sound of an angry shout from the center of the camp the boot disappeared and the footfalls that followed, receded quickly from them.

Visibly relaxing his stance, Vrór rose stiffly to his toes, cautiously peering over the edge of the bank. And as Carl allowed himself to exhale, he suddenly felt faint and reached out to steady himself against the wall of earth beside him. Touching a rock that was unexpectedly wet, he hastily withdrew his hand, and was wiping it vigorously on his trousers, as Vrór joined him.

“A guard,” the dwarf said in low rumbling tones, as he pointed to the top of the bank with the head of his axe. “But we are not so close to camp that they will easily hear us.”

“Oh well then,” Carl whispered. “I do feel a bit better for that. But did you manage to see how many are there?”

“Like ants they are, all milling about. And just as easy to count!” Vrór remarked. “A fair guess would put them at 24 or 25.” The dwarf paused for a moment, his head bowed. “But I am afraid that number does not include any captives they might have with them. I could see no sign of the pit or of the children from this distance.”

“Then I suppose we will have to enter the camp some how, or at least get a closer look,” Carl said under his breath. “Though I don’t think much of our odds,” he added, sitting down. “Perhaps we had better rest here a bit, until we can devise some sort of plan.”

Vrór lowered himself slowly to the ground. “There is a wain…” he began, but before he could continue a drop of chill liquid dropped down Carl’s collar and the hobbit shot up with a start, clasping the back of his neck. “What is it?” Vrór asked, his abundant brows arching with genuine concern.

“Mostly, nerves I should hope,” Carl whispered, rolling his fingers together before lightly sniffing the residue. “Or water. See here, this rock is sweating!” Carl said pointing to a stone buried deeply in the bank.

“Water!” Vrór said, “I could use a fresh drink, instead of the stale stuff that passes for water in the streams here.” The dwarf groaned as he hefted himself up on one knee beside the rock. And searching with his thick fingers, he found a hold, pulling mightily until the stone came loose. With a wink to Carl, he removed it and a small trickle of water ran out.

“So little,” the hobbit observed.

“Ah, there should be more where that came from. Pure water too." And the dwarf dug a bit, until a hole was formed about the size of a hen’s egg. Beyond it was a deep echoing shadow. Vrór put his ear to the spot listening. With in moments his smile faded.

“No more?” Carl asked.

“I hear plenty,” the dwarf replied. “Both the babble of water close by, and of a child in the distance. But the child seems distressed.”

“Only one?” Carl whispered, his heart sinking.

“Only one voice,” Vrór said, sitting up straight.

[Durelin]

Adnan and Beloan

Excitement boiled in Adnan, and he practically grinned at the newcomers, staring in almost awe at some of the stranger looking members of the company. One was taller than the others, and had dark hair but light eyes, and ears like the fifteen year old had never seen. Could he be a being from the stories? But more curious still were the two small men, one his hair obviously turning silver in places, but a good foot or two shorter than Adnan himself. The other was even shorter! So this was what Gondor sent them? A curious bunch, to say the least, but the way they seemed to carry themselves to the young man made him certain that they would be of greater help than he ever would have expected from Gondor or its King.

“My friends and I can only bow our knee to what you have done. But now we must plan and act together. Night will come too soon.”

As the one man finished – to think he had been a slave, too! – Adnan could not help but feel a swell of pride rise up in him, and more hope than he had felt in his life. His talk with Hadith and that he was able to stand up for who he now considered and friend had left him in higher spirits than before, and his feelings only improved from there. There would be a battle soon, and he nearly anticipated it with a thrill, rather than the dread he was accustomed to. Glancing at Hadith, he flashed him a broad smile. They were doing it. They were free, and they were defending that freedom. It was just like in the stories!

“We welcome you with immense gratitude,” Beloan spoke up, deciding it time he stepped forward once again, perhaps falling into the place he had been meant to be in. He had always seemed to be Khamir’s right hand man, and one could say it was right that he take the one-armed man’s place in his failure. Failure...Adnan wanted to think of the man bitterly, but he could not get his words out of his head. “You’ll need it, and you’ll use it well...” Not condescending, not petty words just to make him feel better – Adnan doubted a man like Khamir was capable of ever saying such things – but what the gang leader thought and felt.

“Come, we have a few provisions in our camp if you might need anything, and we may sit around a fire and get down to business.” He addressed the members of the Fellowship, but now raised his voice and turned to speak to his fellow freemen. “We do not have time to waste on distrust – these people will fight alongside us.”

Beloan turned his eyes to Khamir, who he found, to little surprise, still speaking with Shae. He would not stop the man from taking part in the planning, and would indeed encourage him to if he was in need of such, but he knew well that he should distance himself from the man if that was what he wanted. He had trusted the one-armed man as long as he knew him, but now the questions of leadership were beyond him and the way he had lived for so many years. If only he had asked his friend and companion for help, he might have avoided embarrassment. But Beloan knew that was his way, and it was best that he learned from it.

A determined calm settled on the former slaves as the Fellowship was led into the camp, and a fire chosen for them to sit around as they planned. Adnan took it upon himself to add what sticks and dried brush he could find to the blaze, as a group settled down around it, those chosen as makeshift counselors through unvoiced understanding. Few even wished to be a part of such decision making, particularly after years of having their decisions made for them. That was simply how things were – and now they were quite satisfied with who was forming plans for them, knowing that their thoughts and opinions would not be excluded. Those who were concerned simply kept as close a distance as possible to that one fire, more eyes filled with hope watching it dance than had ever gazed on such a flame.

[Firefoot]

What, so now I too am deemed one of the ‘worthy ones’? But for once, Johari held her tongue and accepted the blade warily, eyeing first the gift and then the giver. Johari gazed openly into Shae’s face, expecting to see there the same condescending benevolence that had typically characterized the fifteen in the past weeks but not seeing it. Instead, she found a certain straightforwardness that said the blade was not given as to a pet or child but as to an equal, or at least something like. This more than anything allowed Johari to take the blade, her thanks expressed only in the form of a curt nod and a hint of a smile.

After a moment, Shae moved on, and Johari attached the knife’s sheath to her belt and adjusted the unfamiliar weight in the most comfortable way. The weight embodied a certain new feeling of power she felt over her own situation. She could stick up for herself and thereby accomplish things. Though she was bound to this group by necessity, she had the means now to take care of herself within that group; she would not have to rely on the rest of them for personal protection or care. Of course, she still could learn from them - no sensible person would deny that – but she did not have to rely on them. And she had noted the looks on others’ faces, on those of both groups: no longer was she an anonymity, but somebody to be reckoned with. Not a child. Not a pet. A person.

And that would do. She did not want to be a leader or an advisor or everyone’s friend. She did not even care really if they ignored her most of the time, so long as they did not look down on her – or try to bully her, as Hadith had.

Hadith. Johari had nearly forgotten him and now spared a glance in his direction to see how he was bearing up. She wondered why he had not come back after her. Not intimidation? Or – because she was a woman? This thought actually amused her. Yes, from what she knew of Hadith, this probably had been his reasoning. Just as well – she did not really want to fight him, and already her fury was subsiding. She regretted her action not at all; he had earned it, in her perspective. He also needed to know that she was not here to be his friend or teacher, much less his student. She did not think he would make the same mistake twice.

And she was satisfied.

[Firefoot]

Grask had merely watched as many of the older Orcs had ventured into the man camp to steal livestock and food. He did not hunger as many of them probably did at the moment; even while back at the main camp, Grask had always carried around his little pack that carried a fair amount of meat and was restocked whenever he had had the chance. Thus, he had eaten reasonably well earlier and did not feel the need to rush into the camp with the rest of them, potentially getting in their way. Nor did he need to steal an entire donkey; he had no use for such a large animal. His chances would be better to first figure out what was going on, and then get into a supply wagon.

So he had skirted the camp, approaching slowly from a slightly different angle to where they had their own food stocks. He caught sight of a pair of female Orcs doing similarly, but he had no desire to get involved with them either. One of them had a fierce looking club. Studiously staying in the shadows, Grask found a wagon containing food and lifted himself into it, rooting around quietly until he found a barrel of dried meat, which he began stuffing into his pack.

Before he slipped out of the wagon, he glanced around to make sure no one was watching. No one was; they were all near the other side of the camp – and making quite a fuss about something. Now, had Grask been smart, or perhaps just less curious, he would have left them where they were and left. But he wanted to know what was happening. These were not other Orcs – these were Men, and Grask had had little enough contact with the strange race. Merciless killers, he had heard: Orc-haters. These would be even more likely to kill him than the older Orcs. The danger of it made Grask shiver pleasantly. After all, he had survived his first battle now; he would be up to it.

He crept away from the wagon carefully, looking for a spot where he might watch unobserved and easily escape from. He found a different cart nearer to the men and ducked just underneath it, and just in time, since a new outcry was bursting out in the camp. Donkeys missing… blood… They were discovered now. Grask should leave, seek his protection with the others. No. He would be seen now; the men would be looking for them and watching their camp. Besides, the Orcs would have no reason to protect him. He served them no purpose. So he remained hidden in the shadows beneath his wagon, watching the men run off to the other side of the camp and now able to see the source of their original excitement.

Grask was stunned at what he saw and at first he thought he was mistaken. But no, there was no mistake. There were human young ones. Well, of course such things must exist, as they had to come from somewhere, but such had never occurred to Grask. Were they as vicious as the grown ones were said to be? They seemed to be trying to escape; what had they done to earn the wrath of the older ones, Grask wondered, that they had to be tied up? And if they were such an annoyance, why had the older ones simply not killed them? Such confusing creatures, these Men must be. He only knew that he certainly did not want to be found by one, and that his hiding place was becoming thoroughly uncomfortable. He wondered how soon the camp would settle down so he could escape. And he wondered if the other young ones would be able to make their escape as well.

[Tevildo]

Azhar was used to taking orders. Even here in the middle of the Ash Plain, it was hard to shake old habits. When Kwell had commanded her to flee, the girl had not questioned the decision but immediately gathered up her tattered skirts and scrambled away as fast as her bare feet would take her. The terrain was rocky and the footing unsteady. She had ended up falling to her knees, half skidding and rolling to the bottom of the hill. Only after colliding with a young scrub tree did Azhar stop and cautiously peer back, gingerly rubbing the palm of her hand over her knees, which were already oozing blood.

The girl's heart pounded furiously against her chest, as she tried to make out what was happening at the top of the hill. She wanted to be sure that Kwell would follow. In this part of the plain, the bushes grew in tightly packed clusters, providing ample cover if she chose to remain low and slink away into the darkness. The dogs had been diverted to hunt for the culprits who'd stolen the donkeys so it was unlikely the guards would be able to find her.

Flattening her body against the ground to avoid being seen by anyone, Azhar watched as the slavers confronted Kwell and sent him sprawling on the ground. Her immediate response was disbelief. Kwell could do anything. He was bright and knew how to fight. She had really believed that he would outwit the men and get away. But now the unthinkable was happening; Kwell was being dragged back into the pit.

A thousand contrary feelings competed in Azhar's mind. She did not know whether to stay or leave. Freedom was just a few steps away. All she had to do was remain silent, and she could wiggle out of this situation, just as she'd wiggled out of many others. Everyone was too busy hunting for the robbers to pay much attention to her. But a second voice told a very different story inside her head. How could she leave not even knowing whether Kwell lived or died? Maybe he needed her help. She remembered his promise inside the pit: that he would not leave her to perish on her own. Azhar had sensed that Kwell did not often make such promises. How could she turn away now that he was the one in trouble?

This welter of emotions rushed through Azhar's mind in the space of only a few seconds. But in the end it was not Kwell's promise that helped her decide, but the distant voice that had comforted her a few minutes before, a voice offering assurance in the midst of darkness and despair, one that sounded strangely familiar though she had never heard it before. Whether dream or reality, that voice had promised help was on the way, and she believed what had been said. She had not even had time to tell Kwell about it. She could not slip away and leave her companion behind, injured and most likely bereft of hope. If help was coming, it would come for both of them, and this is where she must stay, doing what she could to bring some comfort to Kwell, who would undoubtedly be furious about what had happened to him.

From some dark recess of her mind that Azhar had never visited before, a shadowy figure emerged, taking on shape and laden with meaning: a powerful image of a mother bear refusing to desert her cubs no matter what dangers lay before them. Awkwardly lumbering to her feet, Azhar stood erect, rooted to the ground, patiently waiting for the slavers to come. When they finally reached her, she kicked and squabbled and bit but then went limp as they dragged her over to the pit and threw her inside right behind Kwell.

[Folwren]

Kwell could not believe his senses, and for good reason. They were disoriented, at the least, at this moment. Yet he couldn’t defy the fact that someone (and he knew who) had been added to the pit just minutes after him. He wanted to cry and curse and yell all at the same time, but years of forced silence kept him quiet. For the moment, at least, it was not difficult to say nothing. They hadn’t been gentle, bringing him back and throwing him down, and he thought that saying anything or moving an inch would hurt. So he lay in silence, curled up on his side, both his hands pressed to his pounding head.

A slight movement from behind him caught his ears. Azhar was crawling towards him.

“Kwell?” she said, half whispering. “Kwell, are you alright?”

“You fool,” Kwell hissed in return. His chest heaved with anger. “You idiotic fool! Why didn’t you run? I gave you everything! I gave you all the time in the world - I even was distracting them - and you didn’t run! Given half the chance you were given, I would have taken it, but you came back. What good do you think it does me having you here? You’re just a little whelp I have to look after when I could be spending all my attention on myself and getting me out alive.” He growled in frustration and pain.

“I thought,” Azhar said timidly when Kwell paused a moment, “I thought you’d be able to escape, too, and when you didn’t-”

“I can’t escape when I have three grown men on top of me!” Kwell snapped, twisted about to face her. But that movement sent stars shooting up before his eyes and daggers of pain up into his skull. His hands clapped to his head again. Azhar darted immediately to his side.

“Kwell, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just hit my head, again. They pounded me, ‘s all. I’ll be alright.” Perhaps this was true and he would be alright. His head throbbed as though it would burst, though, and each time he moved himself enough to make the slightest jarring, the pain redoubled. He didn’t doubt, though, that half of the head ache was caused by the fact that Azhar hadn’t taken her chance and had been brought back. He couldn’t understand it, and it angered him to the point of infuriation. He had been willing to suffer for her, so long as she escaped, but now it all seemed useless.

Untwining his arms from his head so he could look up towards her face, he asked her: “Why didn’t you run?”

[Undómë]

Undómë's post - Zagra and Mazhg


‘Oh! What’s this? From a tall basket, covered over with a clean cloth, came a most enticing smell. Mazhg’s belly growled, remembering a similar odor in the cookhouses near the plantations. It was something for the men from the south who managed the slaves. Mazhg’s brow crinkled as she sought to remember the name. Wheat-bread! Yes, that was it. It was said to be soft and tasty. The Orc women and children, though, were never allowed to have any…only to grow and harvest the grains that went into it; grind them to fine flour while lashed to the wheel that turned the stones; fetch the wood for the ovens… Well, she and Zagra would have it now, wouldn’t they?

Mazhg piled the dried meat, the journey-bread, the tubers, and the basket of man-bread by the slit at the back of the tent. She peeked out her head to see that all was well. Zagra nodded to her, though the nod was followed by a quick twist of her head to the right. Mazhg crawled out of the tent to look where her sister had pointed. There, crouched down by some leafless bushes was one of the other women.

‘Must have followed along behind us,’ Zagra whispered to her sister.

‘You! Girl!’ growled Mazhg in a low voice. ‘Get over here and give us a hand!’ She re-entered the tent and began to quietly shove the food through the slit. She was about to make her exit when some colorful pieces of cloth caught her eye. Bright, swirly patterns shone softly in the light from the single candle lantern that burnt near the door. Soft cloth and finely woven. She remembered seeing the southern men wear them wrapped about their heads or tied about the tops of their breeches as they snapped out orders to the slaves and flicked their whips. Mazhg grabbed up several from the neatly folded pile and stuffed them in the waistband of her breeches.

The three women hurried away from the tent and in the shadow of the trees shoved as much of the stolen food as they could into their traveling bags. The girl, they had not asked her name yet, was given the basket of bread to carry along. The trio made their way back to the rocky encampment.

‘What’s your name, girl?’ Zagra asked as Mazhg divided up the spoils they’d made away with, giving a fair portion to their helper. The two sisters had already given their names. But before the woman could answer, Mazhg hauled out the silky sashes, and let them stream out in the night breeze.

‘Not just things for inside the belly,’ she laughed, her teeth flashing in the moonlight. ‘Look, look! Pretty things, too. Just for us!’ She handed each of the other two women one and wrapped one about her waist, tying it in a clumsy knot.


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Regin Hardhammer's post - Ungolt


Once they’d finished tying on the sashes, the younger orc replied to the two sisters meekly, “My name is Ungolt. I followed you so that I could get some food, because I am very hungry. I have been forced to work in breeding colonies all my life up on the northern plain. After the fall of the Great Eye, I ran away to Nurn. I joined the rebels because I didn’t want to be hurt when the Easterlings made war on the orcs.” Thank you for the pretty scarf. I especially like the rich colors. I have never seen anything like this before.

Ungolt looked up uncertainly, “Perhaps, we could help each other. I don’t know how to forage for food or steal because I never had to do it. But I am good with my hands. I weave baskets, carve wood, and shape clay pots and am even good at making horseshoes on the forge. You see, I used to sneak in when the smith wasn’t looking. Oh, yes, and I can run like the wind. I am faster than most of the men. I’ve had an awful lot of experience running away. Someday, I’m going to learn to fight, just like the men. If you could help me get food, I would run messages for you or make you pots and baskets and other things you’ll need when we get to where we’re going.”


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Undómë's post - Zagra and Mazhg


Zagra whispered hurriedly to her sister. And Mazhg’s eyes flicked often to the young woman as her sister spoke. Nodding her head, Mazhg stepped forward when her sister had finished talking and went slowly around Ungolt, looking her over.

‘So you want to stick close with us? Hmmm, I see you’ve got a nice big club. That’s good. We’ll be needing another strong arm for what we want to do.’ She narrowed her eyes and thought for a moment. If this woman had spent all her life in the breeding colonies as had they, then perhaps she was of a similar mind as them.

‘I heard we were going up north a bit to find a place for ourselves; have our own land to farm and hunt in.’ Mazhg looked at her sister. ‘Now, me and Zagra aren’t of a mind to hitch up with any of the men like some of the other women are thinking of doing or have done. We want our own little place to grow crops on and I have some skill with little traps for smaller game. We don’t mind doing some trading with the others, we just don’t want to be under any man’s fat, hairy thumb. If you worked in the colonies, you must have learned some things about planting and growing and harvesting. We could work our own piece of land once we get it and you’d be welcome to join in.’

Zagra nodded her head, and smiled shyly at Ungolt. ‘I can help you make your baskets. I’m good a gathering sweet grass, and shredding bark into strips. I used to do it while we watched the babies. The older women would weave them into baskets for the babies to sleep in.’ Zagra cast her eyes down, then looked up hopefully. ‘And maybe you could teach me how to make baskets, too.’

‘Anyway, we’ll keep you in food,’ Mazhg went on. ‘And I’m sure if you stick close, you’ll pick up a few tricks on how to keep yourself from going hungry.’ She grinned at Ungolt and Zagra. ‘With three pairs of hands we should be able to get along just fine.’

[Brinniel]

Once the intruders disappeared, Shae had thought the worst would be over. With only two captured and a few slightly injured, she considered themselves lucky. Yet as the night continued, the atmosphere only became increasingly chaotic. Listening to arguments being thrown back and forth, and the blame pointed at the fifteen, particularly Khamir, Shae could feel her headache gradually returning. She was beginning to regret following Khamir's orders. After many years of being part of the gang of ex-slaves, following them had become automatic. Yet, Shae was beginning to wonder if she would've been better off staying behind- even if it meant staying alone.

It took several minutes for the one-armed man to find a response. Finally, he spoke out, saying, “Was anyone behind you with a whip, forcing you onto the same path as myself? One man does not want to decide what we are going to do. You decide what you do.”

As Khamir sat down, Johari opened her mouth, ready to retort at his comment, but without another thought, Shae stepped in.
"There's no point in even trying to argue this, because Khamir is right."
Johari frowned. "Well, of course you have to defend him- you're one of them."
"I'm not defending him," Shae replied, making her voice clear. "I'm merely making a point. None of us were forced to leave the caves. We all chose to follow Khamir, and though he made a mistake in leaving, we are all to blame for choosing to let him drag us along."

Shae turned to Khamir, who looked surprised to hear the normally quiet woman speak out.
"You know, you brought some of this on yourself," she said to him, lowering her voice. "Johari wasn't entirely wrong in her argument- you do treat them like children. If you don't want to be a leader, don't act like one. You have no right to tell the others who may or may not handle weapons. Adnan made a mistake. We all make mistakes- yes, his was more costly- but nevertheless, it was a mistake and it is how we learn. But how will he learn from his error when you take both his weapon and his dignity away? I made many mistakes my first few years, but if I had not been given a second chance, I would not be who I am today. Everyone in this group- old, young, male, or female- deserves a chance to fight. By telling them who can have a weapon or who can have a night watch shift, you are only enforcing their opinion of how you consider them. Just as Johari said- like children." She paused a moment before continuing. "Tonight, I want to put an end to that."

Scanning the crowd, Shae sought out Adnan and handed one of her four daggers to him. "Like anyone else, you deserve another chance," she told him. "But please, just don't mess up again. I won't be around to defend you every time you make an error."

As the woman stepped back into her place, she handed a second dagger to Johari. "I've listened enough to your fiery tongue tonight and know you are completely capable of handling this blade," she said. "Be sure to use it well."

[Orofaniel]

The attack, or the kidnapping, had not come as any huge surprise on Reagonn. It sounded cynical, but he was a man who had experienced a lot throughout the years. He knew that a big party of over fifty men, women and children, would not be able to walk and make camp without being seen. This was only the beginning he concluded.

He had listened carefully to the things that had been said, and he realised that Khamir found himself in a very unpleasant situation. He was seen upon as their leader, yet it was clear that he was unwilling to take any responsibility for dragging the group out of the caves.

Sighing, he glanced over to Eirnar. He stood motionless, as if in deep thought. Then Reagonn glanced on to the person standing next to him. It was a man, or rather a young man, he had not seen before. Yet, Reagonn found himself staring at him, suddenly feeling akward and quite uncomfortable where he stood. Had they been slaves at the same plantation, labouring together, side by side, without really having noticed until now? As vague and silly it sounded, Reagonn could not get rid of this feeling that they knew each other, or had once known each other. Who was he?

[Novnarwen]

Aedhild

Aedhild had no recollections of having moved to this particular spot. Tilting her head, she frowned, trying to extract a memory of the last thing she had done. "The devil knows who has moved me," she muttered under her breath. Closing her eyes, she tried envisioning how she had come to sand here, surrounded by the other slaves. They were talking, "the heavens knows only about what," some more aggressively than others. In the darkness, she couldn't clearly distinguish their features, nor was she able to recognise anyone she knew. She had fallen to the ground. She remembered now. She had heard shouting, "the heavens knows ..." she repeated, slightly irritated. It didn't explain however why she was here, among strangers, not asleep with feet aching as if she had run a hundred miles.

Nearby, the one-armed man had settled in the grass. She eyed him suspiciously. "Do you know what they are quarrelling about? she asked, approaching with light steps.

At first he didn't answer, just raised his eyebrow as if in surprise. Then, after a few moments, he erupted with laughter. Several moments went by, before he was able to control himself, and only then did Aedhild realise what had happened.

"Young man," she said sternly. "you laugh mockingly at an old woman!” she said horrified, still seeing the tendency of a faint smile on his lips.

“Did you mother never teach you ---” voice cracking, her anger grew, “respect?” she continued hotly, trying to resume her lost dignity. Her body shook with anger. The urge to give this youngster a serious beating, to teach him a lesson, seemed overwhelmingly tempting, but she managed to restrain herself. Even in this darkness, anyone could see that the otherwise ghostly white pallor of her face had been replaced by gloriously red; her cheeks seemed to burn under the cool, night sky. Taking a step closer, her mouth trembling, she straightened; her relatively small figure seeming to double in size as she did so.

Though, Aedhild did not possess any significant charismatic skills to intimidate her victims, she did seem to know how to make her fragile figure seem more frightening. Whether she straightened her back in these kinds of situations intentionally or not, no one would know, but it did seem to have an effect on the person she faced; in doing so, it seemed that she possessed an authority that only women her age can have; not even her wild appearance, which bordered to the humorous, could stop her from seizing this authority when she took a completely straight posture. However, knowing about her condition, what many slaves now dared call ‘madness', the others didn't take her seriously, and the authority she supposedly gained by this little trick had at least weakened if not completely been put to ruin.

“Shh! Take your anger elsewhere, woman,” the Southron replied at last, casting a last gaze upon her skinny figure body.

Gasping, Aedhild pointed her finger at him. This… this scoundrel of a man… disrespectful creature… Her body seemed to explode with the anger and tension she had tried suppressing. “You! You child of Mordor!” she screamed, but her words hardly escaped her lips before her all of the muscles in her body seemed to relax – at once. Dropping to the ground, hitting the wet grass, Aedhild lay motionless, her eyes wide open.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

As he watched the shadowy figure of Rôg speaking to Aiwendil beyond the firelight, Carl couldn’t quite understand how they, or the king for that matter, could be so taken with a of survey of bats, as to put aside all else. He didn’t particularly care if Rôg had had found a whole nation of bats that rode horses and had their own postal system They would likely still be there, hanging upside down from their trees, like great winged cats, a year from now. And after all, bats had wings whereas slaves did not, and they need not be overly concerned with slavers like these people must be. He shook his head in disbelief. How could he be expected to understand the ways of the educated, when they seemed so often to make no sense what so ever?

The hobbit gradually became aware that his face had pressed itself into a frown, and he made an effort to find a more appropriate expression, for the dwarf had just confessed to them a certain gladness of heart at Athwen’s discovery, which the hobbit indeed shared. And so Carl smiled at Vrór, adding his own thoughts to this sentiment, as the lady slipped away quickly bringing her husband to them. But when the man took that item which his wife handed him, rather than finding cheer in it, he seemed burdened by memories and his words added immeasurable weight to the stone he held. Once again the hobbit felt the urge to ask him how he had managed to escape, but with difficultly held his tongue, judging it improper to make inquiries of such a personal nature. And so though the stone did little to give them direction, it still served to bring the hobbit at least, closer to those people they were to help.

Carl’s attention turned away from the others as he steadily became preoccupied with his own thoughts. A rapid adjustment had taken place in the hobbit’s heart, very unexpectedly, and with it came a pang of sorrow. He felt it sharply. For all the while he and the others in the company had traversed the land, he had never ceased thinking about those poor folk who they were to meet. And when the purpose of the branding iron was revealed, it chilled him to the core, to see evidence of the hardship that they must have endured in their lives. Indeed it was but a happy chance that they were not in fear of the slavers themselves. Or perhaps they should be! For if a man was black hearted enough to treat folk worse than the shoe he steps on with each stride, who’s to know if he’d care for anything at all beside his own good pleasure. Even the power of a just king and the might of arms might not give him pause, for he would be one wolf among many just as ruthless as he.

But still those former slaves, had always been held in his mind as a helpless, hapless group, a single entity to be pitied and to be lifted out of their misery, as if together he and his companions comprised the key to some invisible prison. The stone along with Dorran’s words shattered this notion as effectively as if he had hurled the thing at a flowerpot. Suddenly, it became clear that these people were individuals, like Dorran. And perhaps differed just as much as his own group.

A single hand had drawn that handsome tree, and that person’s presence shone evident in each scratch on it. Who was it that first thought to leave this sign behind, this bit of themself? Was it a group decision, or an individual one? Perhaps the very same hand that wrote the letter to King Elessar sketched it out. Soon the former slaves began to become well populated with intelligent and practical persons in the hobbit’s imagination, but most of all the stone provided a palpable link and fragile bond to at least one of them. And the hobbit felt compelled to find its author.

Turning to Athwen who again possessed the token, in a voice soft with emotion, Carl asked if he might have the honor of carrying the stone with him, to better keep it's source in mind. She agreed, handing it to him, and he quickly slipped it in his vest pocket, before addressing the dwarf. “It seems to me. Mister Vrór, that we will have to travel more quickly now than we have up to this point. And while I don’t mean to cause you any offence, I’d like to let you know that if you’d care to, you are more than welcome to ride with me. Stumps is even tempered beast and while not the fastest thing on four legs, he is sure footed and as strong as they come. That is how he came by his name, after all. No pony better in all Bywater for helping pull out tree stumps. He’s all muscle in there, a real hard worker and I’m sure he’d be just as pleased as I’d be, if you took up the invitation.” The dwarf looked doubtfully at the well-padded little farm horse. “Don’t worry. You just think on it a bit, Mister Vrór,” Carl reassured him, seeing his offer wasn’t immediately accepted. “I wouldn’t want to rush your decision any.” And with that the hobbit walked over to the red pony, and after stroking the side of the animal’s neck, he rested his hand on the stone that lay in his pocket.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The voices at the entrance to the pit had become increasingly loud and contentious. Accusations flew back and forth as Khanun confronted each of the men and accused them of planting a snake inside his water flask. At one point he came perilously close to exchanging blows with another member of the band. The two were spitting and fuming and calling out curses as they circled each other, their hands instinctively dropping down to pull out their knives.

Hastily jumping in between the combatants, Imak put an immediate stop to the ruckus. "Enough! I will have both of you in neck collars before this night is out! Think, Khanun. Even someone as dull witted as you should realize it wasn't the men. You were supposed to give that water to the captives. Why would the men pull a trick on the slaves? No, you sluggard. Your complaint tells me that you failed to follow my orders, and used the water yourself. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say that you fell asleep and somehow one of the prisoners, probably the boy, stuffed the snake inside."

"But.....but....that's not possible. They're tied up." Knanun pointed weakly towards the bottom of the pit."

"We'll see just how secure your knots are. Ghila, go down with two of the men and bring up the slaves." Imak glanced over at Khanun with a sadistic smile. "This should be fun. If I am right, you've earned yourself ten lashes."

Within a few minutes, Azhar and Kwell had been removed from the pit and forcibly dragged into the presence of the bounty hunters. Imak bent down to examine their bonds, but before he could get a close look, there was an outcry from the other side of the camp, and the man who cooked for them came bounding up to Imak.

"Captain, something's wrong. Two of the donkeys are gone. The grass is matted, stained with blood. It looks as if one great brute, maybe more, came smashing into camp."

What more could go wrong, Imak mused. Things were spinning out of control. He'd best act and act quickly. Imak barked out his orders, "Ghila, you and your two men keep an eye on these slaves. We'll deal with them later. Khanun, don't leave my side. You men look over the camp. Make sure everything's alright. If there are any problems, sound your horn. Meanwhile, I'll check out these missing donkeys."

With that the group split up and went about their duties.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The members of the fellowship sat chatting and laughing in the fading light of the cooking fires, their faces relaxed as they temporarily set aside the worries of the day. Dorran and Athwen had finished preparing the meal. A pot of fish stew simmered over the coals, alongside a smaller kettle of mushrooms, a delicacy they'd discovered growing in one of the tunnels of the cave.

Aiwendil had waited till late in the evening to pull Lindir aside and speak with him. Partially, this was because the wizard did not know how he was going to convey his news in a way that would make sense, yet still respect Rôg's right to keep certain matters private. This was not the only reason for his delay. With the possible exception of Lindir, everyone needed time to rest. It made no sense for the company to push forward without at least stopping for dinner.

Aiwendil and Lindir walked together down the stream bank, confiding to each other in low voices. At one point, the istar knelt down and, using the end of his staff, etched something in the dirt, taking time to explain what the different scratchings meant. The Elf peered skeptically over Aiwendil's shoulder and shook his head in disbelief, "How can you possibly have learned this? Even the brightest birds in Mordor could not have described these landmarks with such precision. I know you are from the West, but I find this difficult to understand."

Aiwendil spoke with quiet confidence, "Lindir, trust me. This information was freely given. I am certain it is true. Indeed, I am prepared to stake my own life on it and the lives of all those in this company. The slaves are here; the slavers there, just a few miles apart. The slavers have captured the two children, imprisoning them against their will. We must leave now, not wait an instant longer. When the sun rises, the bounty hunters may well ride back and attack the slave camp. Although the slaves outnumber their pursuers, they lack the weapons and experience to stand against a trained band. Many of them are too young or old to defend themselves. And who knows if they can agree among themselves, or possess the heart and will to fight? Cruelty and bondage can do strange things to men."

With a sigh, Lindir shook his head, "I believe you, Aiwendil. You have spoken the truth. But, as Elessar has said, I am the one who must make the hard decision whether this group should go forward under these difficult circumstances, a journey that will likely end in combat. I must think on this further. Aiwendil, go back to the others. I will return within the space of an hour once I decide what we must do."

"By the way...." the Elf interjected a hasty afterthought, "Is Rôg back from the bat colony?"

"Yes, over an hour ago. The lad had great success, but I believe he was having a problem with his horse and wanted to attend to it. Now he has rejoined the others at the fire."

Lindir nodded his head, turned away, and continued walking up the stream bank.