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

[Novnarwen]

Eirnar

He didn’t need a knife to protect Aedhild. He had a club, crafted with his own hands. “Protect Aedhild at least,” he mimicked silently to himself as soon as Khamir was out of sight. Though he didn’t mind taking care of Aedhild, as nobody else seemed up for the task, he didn’t like the idea of being seen as her personal protector, or her nurse for that matter. She was an unusual woman, yes, and he did seem to understand her better than most, but did that automatically leave him with the sole responsibility for her? It was not his fault that she was incapable of taking responsibility for herself; selfish as this sounded, he reproached himself for the direction of his thoughts. He should not, he could not forget that he had been blessed, he was alive and well after years for torture, and acknowledging this to himself, he realised that protecting Aedhild should be but a small task, and he should do it both willingly and dutifully.

**

Aedhild was already asleep when he settled down. Although he had done everything in his power to forget about today’s encounters and intrigues, he couldn’t quite let it go. He had been so fierce in his critique of Khamir, his actions, and yet, at the end of the day, Khamir had still offered him a knife. Eirnar had narrowed his eyes and reacted with disbelief and scepticism. Was it really Aedhild he needed to protect, or was it himself? Was this just part of the game the Southron was playing? Whichever game he was playing, he was sure good at it. Finally, he had to conclude that he could not know what was in the Southron’s mind.

For some time now, he had been suspicions of Khamir. Though careful to not give away too much of his thoughts in case his suspicions had truth in them, he could not help thinking of having been too prominent in his critique. It hadn’t brought any good, and Eirnar had to admit that today’s events did nothing but confuse him further. Had Khamir been sincere? Had he intended the knife for him to protect Aedhild, who supposedly was unable herself? Smiling, he remembered when the woman had charged at him for no apparent reason. She herself didn’t seem to remember anything of the sorts, and Eirnar felt no particularly urge to tell her either. No, she was capable to protect herself; at times she was as aggressive and threatening as the slave-guards at the plantations.

If it wasn’t for Aedhild’s protection, was it for his own? After having openly confronted him with his complaints, maybe the ex-slave had viewed it as a challenge. Perhaps he regarded him as a threat. Perhaps Khamir was getting cold feet; if the slaves started doubting his abilities as a leader, started doubting his intentions, started doubting him, his plan, whatever it was, would without a doubt fail! A slight shiver ran through him as he realised that if this was the case, then he would be a target; he would be someone Khamir would sneak up on at night, and with a slit throat, he would be taken away before the others would rise. Who know? Maybe the kidnapping of the children had been planned. It suddenly hit him that it was a trap. It became so painfully obvious that he had difficulties believing it. Had Khamir resisted going after them so quickly to purposely allow more attacks? Did he want to delay a pursuit until whoever it was he was in league with were ready for them?

Taking a hold of the knife, which he had hung in his belt, Eirnar examined at it carefully as if it would help him come to a conclusion of what he ought to do. If he abandoned the group, he was on his own, and he wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or not. Not yet. The danger of staying seemed greater at this point though; the tension in the camp was palpable, and who knew what happened tomorrow… he would take his chances, but not a moment longer than he had to.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

In the end everything had happened just a bit too fast for Hadith to cope with. He had thanked and nodded to Khamir, taking his leave as Khamir had addressed Eirnar. As he withdrew from Khamir and others he realised that he was shaking all over. The excitement of the previous situation bounced back on him only now. He felt his heart beat twice the normal speed and his hands were trembling. But in those shaky hands of his there was the long knife, the beautiful blade and it’s sheath that the young Easterling had bore with him as he had fallen off from his mount. Hadith remembered just too vividly how the mutilated young man had looked like when he had turned him around after he had been beaten to death. With that memory he felt both anguished and insecure on top of all that had happened just a moment ago. The feeling of triumph was fading away fast.

He went to search for his packages from the general disorder, just to employ his mind on something else. But the thoughts and images kept flowing into his mind. And for the time being, he was finding nothing.

Suddenly there was the image of his father handing him an orange. It was soon blurred and replaced by an image of Khamir giving him the knife, not once or twice, but three times in succesion. And then there was something Hadith thought he had never quite recalled before: the image of his father bowing over him and whispering, “you’ll have to stand for the good.. never to bow to the wicked ways.” He had always related that sentence to his mother as it was something she had kept on telling him, but now it was also his father that was whispering the very same words into his ears inside.

His father had had a full beard that had covered most of his face, but more vividly than that Hadith remembered his gleaming eyes. There was something in Khamir that looked the same. Only now did Hadith actually pay heed to the colour of Khamir’s skin. It was the same his father had had. Hadith himself had somewhat lighter tone of colour on his skin but it could be easily traced back to that of his father, and that of Khamir. His mother had been so pale... Hadith tried all his strength to come up with the name of the place his mother had been from. Osglininnian? Oglithiar?... He couldn’t remember it, but it was in a part of the world that was called Gronror, or Gorondor, or something. He had heard those places mentioned once or twice but he couldn’t just come up with them.

Anyhow, Hadith had different facial features from his father, or Khamir, with high cheekbones and slim ears. That had something to do with his mother. But who had told him to stand up and fight for the good? It had been his mother. But was it his father too? Or was it himself? And what did Khamir had to do with all this? Why was he drawn to him so strongly? Just because there was something in Khamir that reminded him of his father? He had stood against three adult men in front of Khamir, because of something else than only his own pride, surely.

Hadith was baffled. He kept turning the blade in his hands as he walked aimlessly around the still confused camp of the refugees. He didn’t see his packages, but even if they had been in front of him, he wouldn’t have noticed them anyway. He was too immersed in his thoughts and doubts. Who was he? Who were all the people around him? Who were the Easterling slavers pursuing them?

[Nogrod]

Gwerr

On another occasion, Gwerr would have stood against Ishkur and stressed his plan, but this time Ishkur seemed to have got it right.The day was indeed dawning. He had misjudged the speed of that cursed bright ball that teared off the eyes of any decent orc. The first rays of the sun were already starting to turn the distant hills behind them from dark blueish-black to a tinge of light brownish-orange, soon to become bright red and yellow.

After Ishkur had called the others to find a shelter Gwerr grunted to him in a way orcs would find almost peaceful. “You too are worth a thousand Uruks! We’ve had a long road together Ishkur, you and I.” With that he pounded Ishkur to his chest, hard but in a somewhat friendly way by the orc standards. Gwerr looked at Ishkur straight into the eye. “I still fear those Easterlings hunting after us, especially because that rat-pack Makdush has clearly stolen something of worth with wich he boasts about. We risk too much if we have to fight them. You know it as well.” Gwerr studied Ishkur’s expression carefully and saw that he had managed to make him at least a bit troubled.

“We have no choice now Gwerr, you know that too”, Ishkur replied after a short pause, staring back at Gwerr intensively and then glancing on the brightening colour of the distant hills behind them. “We must work with the Uruks for the time being. Realise that and bury your anger from sight for awhile.”

Gwerr kicked a stone from his feet so furiously that it flew over the bushes covering them from the direction of the Easterling-camp. For a moment he was silent and just stared after the rock that had disappeared from sight. They both could hear it rolling down the slope behind the vegetation. Different thoughts and feelings were running rampant in Gwerr’s mind. They were tearing him apart.

Ishkur was about to leave when Gwerr at last managed to calm himself more fully and to speak out, still watching to the direction of the Easterling-camp. “If the Easterlings come at daylight, I surely would feel better to have some of those creepy Uruks to fight beside us”, he said cautiously, turning to face Ishkur and trying to grasp his response to that startling confession of his. “Today we need them”, Gwerr continued, “but I do swear, that I do my best not to get into this kind of situation another time.” He hissed quietly and spat to the ground.

For a moment those two comrades in arms stood silent, just looking at each other and trying to evaluate their positions in respect to one another. Slowly Gwerr raised his hand to touch Ishkur’s shoulder. He gripped it forcefully but not so aggressively than one might have thought.

“We must stick together Ishkur. And we must make sure Colagar, or the others, will not flip. We’ll get rid of those scrubby scroundels in due time”. With that he turned his head to catch the three Uruks still talking about something together in hushed voices some twenty yards from them. “You see how they are scheming their rotten plans”, Gwerr said now more quietly, nodding towards the Uruk-trio, “But you’re right, the time is not now.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Aiwendil shook his head. The slightest hint of a smile slipped over his face as he turned to face the couple. "You young folk! Always in a hurry. Can't sit still for more than a minute. You're probably right, Athwen. There'd likely be no harm if we sent out another scout or two to check up on Carl and Vrór. Still, I can't help thinking that we are better off lying low and staying out of sight. Let's wait to ride out until we have the cover of darkness. Anyways, those two will get through. I'm sure of it, and then find their way back here long before evening comes."

Aiwendil glanced over at Dorran, almost as if he could read some of the thoughts that lay behind the man of Rohan's concern over whether or not the two smallest members of their party could possibly make it through in such difficult circumstances. The istar added in a gentle tone, "Not easy sitting and waiting. Not for a Rider who's used to going out and attacking problems head on.....especially since you've had to carry heavy memories of these lands for such a long time."

Lindir nodded his head in agreement, "If we hear nothing by the dinner hour, we'll ride out as a group. But I think Aiwendil is right. If anyone can get through, those two will." The Elf stared across the open plain in the direction of the slavers' camp.

[Durelin]

Vrór

His heart heavy in his chest, Vrór stared down at the rough grass beneath him, allowing sadness to pull him down. He was frozen for several moments under its weight, and Carl watched him briefly before shuffling over to the small opening in a black abyss. Vrór gave him more space, and the Hobbit put his ear up to the hole. The Dwarf now remained still by force of will, not wanting to disturb Carl with any movement or sound. After a few moments, the Hobbit pulled himself away from the opening, and disrupted the silence.

“It feels as if there are sounds just beyond what I can hear,” he whispered, “but no matter how hard I strain my hearing, I know I cannot reach them.”

Vrór shook his head and muttered gratingly, “Aye.”

“And to think it seems like such a short tunnel by the nature of the echoes…” Carl trailed off, as he met the Dwarf’s gaze. They realized simultaneously just what the Hobbit had said. A tunnel!

Each wished to burst out with some sound of rejoicing, but found themselves silenced by the presence nearby. The slavers’ camp was a noisy reminder of how close they were to capture and…death? Or would they be made slaves, as well? A fine catch, a Dwarf and a Hobbit; unique.

Vrór put his ear up to the opening once again, closing his eyes and focusing his mind on good, hard stone. The Dwarf had to hear for himself again what Carl was talking about, and he could only nod in silent agreement toward the Hobbit. He sorely wished they could risk lighting a torch to solidify their beliefs, but he knew that would be practically handing themselves in. Pulling away from the gap in the stony earth slightly, he eyed the structuring around the opening. He began to trace lines around stones as the gears in his head turned with a steady clicking and whirring.

“I do think I can get that opening a great deal bigger in a pinch, as long as I bring along just a couple tools…” he whispered to his comrade, who gave a nod of understanding in reply.

“You feel confident enough to move on?” the Hobbit asked in a voice Vrór had to strain to hear. The Dwarf hesitated for a moment before he nodded sharply. It would do. He had completed tunneling projects on hundreds of occasions before taking up work in Minas Tirith, where those Men were much more interested in raising things high above the ground and waiting for the wind to blow them over.

“Let’s see what we can find out about the camp,” Vrór muttered. He gingerly replaced the rock to close the hole he had maid, and then gestured with his axe that Carl take the lead shuffling along the bank past where they had discovered their tunnel. They would follow a small bend in the stream to get a little closer to the camp. Their hearts pounded in their ears, and every sound they made brought them a feeling of utmost dread.

Once around the bend, their eyes were caught by a small fern-like growth that appeared upon closer to look to be seemingly a patch of well-grown weeds. The two squatted down to silently debate who would take a chance at peeking at the camp through the vegetation. Vrór insisted as best he could without using any words, and Carl relented. Rising slowly, inch by inch, the Dwarf peered through the patch of weeds, reaching up just as slowly to pull a few out of his line of vision.

He did a quick recount, and found himself again looking at about two-dozen men. He caught sight of metal glinting in the sunlight by a rough tent nearest to the stream, and focused on it. Armour of some kind…perhaps more for show than anything else, but… One man strutted around the camp with both a sword and a long knife at his belt. There were smells in the air that said that they had food that smelled…well, like food, rather than a meager portion of whatever they could find. Mostly they seemed at ease.

Near to their tunnel, Vrór estimated, two men walked above, obviously trying to look busy through rather determined looking pacing. One had a sword, the other a spear, at least. Certainly well-armed, well-fed, and well full of themselves, this lot. Perhaps that was why they had stopped in the middle of the day – they were taking their time, feeling they had nothing to lose or to rush. Or perhaps they did not wish to move too far away from the slaves, who, at least according to Aiwendil, and apparently the strange Southern fellow, were not too far north of here. Were these men waiting for something? There seemed to be something else underlying the laziness in the camp. Something was waiting, watching, and plotting…

Pulling himself slowly back down, Vrór whispered a few of his findings to Carl, and then asked him if he’d like to risk a look, as well. The Hobbit hoisted himself up, knowing that four eyes were better than two. The Dwarf waited beneath, and seconds dragged on for hours before Carl finally lowered back down.

“There are two guards, and they both were speaking to someone below them…it is a pit, just as Aiwendil said. And they…they…kicked and threw…dirt…maybe rocks…down…” he trailed off. Both felt pained to think how they were treating two children.

After agreeing it was time to move on, the Dwarf and the Hobbit made their way back around the bed, and past where they knew the tunnel was, sparing it a glance or two. They followed the stream away from the camp for longer than they had followed it toward the camp, before they climbed out of the streambed, and made their way back to the rest of the Fellowship, where they hoped camp awaited them. It was about their only hope. Covered in dirt, the Fellowship of the Fourth Age’s spies approached the camp, dragging their feet, having forgotten for the moment the good news of the tunnel.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Despite his earlier advice to Dorran and Athwen that the members of the fellowship should exercise patience, Aiwendil was the first to leap up from his chores and wag his staff excitedly towards the north. "Rôg, Lindir, take a look. That direction over there. I've not seen such woebegone travellers in a while. But what a welcome sight!" He pointed towards tiny specks in the distance that grew larger with every step.

Once the scouts approached within a hundred paces, the istar waved again and let out a broad haloo to indicate that everything was fine in camp. In a manner of minutes, all had gathered around the two returnees. Carl and Vrór each took some good natured ribbing about their dirty faces and disreputable looking appearance. Before the travellers sat down to talk, they were given fresh water to scrub off the worst of the mud and dirt, and were afterwards rewarded with a generous portion of journey bread and ale to slake their hunger and thirst.

When the two had finished wolfing down their meal, Lindir turned straight to the business at hand. Each of the scouts described what they had seen in the slavers' camp and how the streambed they'd followed had led into a tunnel very close to where the prisoners were kept. Lindir listened with particular interest while Vrór explained that he and Carl could likely break through to the prison if they had proper digging tools. There was absolute silence as Carl went on to state how they had heard the sound of one child, but only one, when they'd listened to the noises coming from the underground pit and how the guards had thrown rocks and dirt down into the enclosure where the prisoners were being kept.

After asking several pointed questions of the scouts, Lindir turned to the others and spoke, "It seems we'll have our work cut out tonight. Carl and Vrôr must dig through the tunnel. A few others will need to back them up by that streambed, to get rid of the guards and anyone else who tries to stop us from rescuing the children. We also need someone to wait a short distance away and keep an eye on the horses, since we may need to get out of there very quickly." Here, Lindir glanced briefly at Athwen. "Actually it's even more than that. We don't really know what shape the slaves are in. The fact that Carl and Vrór heard only one voice is not encouraging. In addition to having the horses handy, we've also got to be prepared to transport children who may be sick or unconscious."

"Alright then, who does what? Any more suggestions or ideas how to go about this? I have been wondering if we'd want to send someone to the far side of the camp to create a diversion. Or would that only decrease our numbers since we need to take care of those guards?"