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

[Brinniel]

Darkness approached swiftly as Shae trudged through the dirt. The moon shone brightly, giving Shae enough light to see her path. She shivered as the cool air brushed against her skin.

Then, suddenly, a silhouette in the distance caused her stop in her tracks. A horse and its rider. Instinctively, Shae crouched behind the brush. Then slowly, she crawled towards the figure for a better look. As the face took shape, Shae realized the rider was one of the slavers.

Shades.

She couldn't help but curse. Most likely there were more nearby. The slavers had been watching them. But why? Did they plan to capture even more ex-slaves tonight? It did not matter. Shae had left the camp and she would not return until she accomplished her mission. But first she would have to take care of this man. Quietly.

Shae kept her good eye on the slaver as she picked up a small rock. The man hadn't noticed her yet. Without further thought, Shae threw the rock, aiming it into the brush slightly left of the slaver. The slaver's head instantly snapped towards the direction of the sound. And as Shae expected, the man dismounted his horse and searched for the source of the sudden noise.

This was her chance. Shae unsheathed one of her throwing daggers, steadying it in her right hand. Her target was moving further away.

I need to get closer.

Straightening from her crouch, Shae stepped one....two....three - too quickly. On the third step, Shae's foot slid on the rocks beneath her, kicking several small pebbles into a large rock. Instantly, the slaver turned in her direction, and before Shae could think, she threw her dagger at the man. The weapon only grazed his arm as he charged towards the woman. Shae drew her other dagger, but it was too late. Before she knew it, she was on the ground, the weapon flying from her hand. Shae struggled as the slaver's large hands wrapped tightly around her neck, and her hand groped for her precious dagger. Instead, she found another rock, slightly larger than the size of her hand. Gripping it tightly, Shae thrusted the object into the side of the slaver's head. Instantly, the pressure on her throat disappeared as the man's hands moved towards his head. Using all her strength, Shae brought the rock down upon him one last time and the slaver fell to his side.

The woman rubbed her sore throat as she stood up. The glimmer of her dagger caught her eye, and she picked it up. Glimpsing at the man, she could see the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Staring back at the dagger, Shae gave a deep sigh. What she had just done was a dangerous move for both herself and the others. She could take no risks. Kneeling down beside the slaver, Shae used her small weapon to slit his throat. Instantly, the breathing ceased. As she wiped the blood from her blade, Shae's eye caught the glint of her second dagger, she went over to pick it up as well.

Sheathing both weapons, Shae turned towards the slaver's horse. Surprisingly, the creature had not moved during the struggle. Well trained indeed.

In the process of terminating her first obstacle, Shae had gained a faster way to reach the camp. Nevertheless, the woman still felt uneasy. Shae had not ridden a horse since she was a little girl, before the days of slavery when she lived with her family in Gondor. She couldn't help but wonder if she would even be able to stay on the horse- the horse whose rider she had just killed. Shae approached the creature slowly, and place her hands near the muzzle. He sniffed her hands curiously, then seemed to lose interest. Stepping to the side, Shae patted his neck then climbed up the horse's back. Even with the saddle underneath her and the reins in hand, Shae felt uneasy sitting so high. Memories of her childhood rushed back into her head. Taking a deep breath, Shae kicked into the horse's sides, and instantly they took off into a gallop, Shae's knuckles white against the reins.

[Tevildo]

As the minutes and hours dragged by, the young girl had remained locked within her dreams, seemingly unable to try and escape. Kwell’s gentle attempts to bathe her with a few precious handfuls of water had met with scant success. Her skin burned hot with fever, her eyes open and staring outward but registering nothing.

Though unable to speak or move, Azhar still drifted from one nightmare to the next. Her tangled dreams were filled with images of prisons and bars and the sensation of being held back against her will. Sometimes these were actual physical restraints; more often she had the feeling that she was being trapped inside her mind and that she would go mad unless a path opened up to allow her to push down all the barriers and somehow reach the other side.

She had no idea what was on the other side of that barrier. But in all her years of captivity in Nurn, she had never felt such an intense desire to throw everything behind and claim some fragment of herself that had always been denied. Her body shuddered and gently swayed side to side under the sharp reality of her unmet need. Yet all the while this was going on, she could see and hear things that were taking place about her, even though she could not communicate anything to anyone.

Her heart sank down to her toes as she sensed Kwell trying to help her and afterwards sitting off by himself, alone and despondent. She could even make out the small hole that unexpectedly appeared at the back of the tunnel and the bright eyes that shone through the tiny opening. Part of her accepted that image as a given. She already knew this. Their rescuers were coming. But at the exact instant of that sweet revelation, Azhar’s mind was assaulted by yet another sensation, this one far more insistent than the first.

A great cat sat beside her, first motionless, then snarling and springing forward towards its prey. She should have been afraid of such a fierce creature, but she was not. The cat belonged here. There was a natural goodness in its fierce presence that she could not deny. Rather than fearing its wildness and instinctively drawing back, Azhar found herself strangely attracted to the beast, wanting to share its experience. She tried and tried to do something to break through to the beast, but a tiny warning bell sounded inside her head that this was not to be her way.

Then, out of nowhere, came a great explosion. Glittering flecks of fire and light were spilled out into the heavens, the display visible even through the prisoners' grate. Outside all was chaos. Inside Azhar lay in a silent heap, quiet and unmoving.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir waited until Vrór and Carl disappeared inside the bowels of the earth and then helped fasten a blanket over the hole to conceal the glow from the torch. Leaving Dorran to stand guard on the lower edge of the creek, Lindir crawled up the bank and, staying low to the ground, gazed intently at the surrounding plain to make sure that no one could see them. After determining that no guard stood on duty near the stream bed, the Elf whispered a hurried thanks to the Lady, asking that she who had fashioned the Moon and Sun and who still watched over Middle-earth would bless their endeavors this starry night.

The Elf's relief, however, was short lived. Within a few moments of the Dwarf and Hobbit climbing into the tunnel, a single sentry had come into view, riding along the perimeter of camp. Lindir had ducked his head into the thick brush and motioned to Dorran to stay alert, afraid that their group might be seen. Hopefully, the lone guard would suspect nothing and simply move on. The rider had stopped and squinted in one direction and then the other, but had quickly turned away and, to Lindir's relief, began to ride off in the opposite direction.

While a blanket may be an excellent means to mask the light of a torch, it is less effective in muffling the sounds of a hobbit and a dwarf who must slosh hurriedly through knee deep water carrying a spade head and other essential metal tools. Although both Carl and Vrór were extremely adroit on land, neither had any particular experience with underground rushing streams, yet that was the situation they now found themselves in. Despite their lowered voices and the fact that they had ventured a good ways down the tunnel, every now and then the water splashed and broke against the earthen walls. The sentry on guard had neither the wits or the ears to detect this faint difference in the sound of the stream. But a passing owl perched on a nearby boulder, who had flown down to drink from the water, had immediately detected the difference and begun to hoot out a warning to any of his own kind venturing by, alerting them that something unusual was afoot.

Lindir could do nothing to silence the bird. He had watched in dismay as a look of suspicion passed over the face of the rider who had then swung back to inspect the steam bed. The horseman had called out into the darkness and, within a minute, two more mounted guards had appeared, rushing up to aid the first. There was no place Lindir could hide, and there was no time to retreat down the hole, which might otherwise have provided some shelter. The patches of grass and the stream bank itself did not offer real cover: both Dorran and Lindir were clearly visible to the slavers. The first rider took one look at the Elf and, spitting out a curse, spurred his horse forward, his sword raised menacingly over his head. Even worse, the second placed a great horn to his lips, prepared to give a mighty blast to arouse the entire camp. Lindir watched in horror and turned to face the blow, wondering how they could prevail against some twenty-five men. Dorran ran up beside him with his sword, thrusting out but falling short in a valiant attempt to stop the slaver with the horn.

Yet at that instant, a great explosion reverberated through the skies so that the notes of the horn drifted harmlessly away, unable to be detected more than a few feet distant. Dorran and Lindir turned to face their attackers, each wondering if Rôg or Aiwendil could be responsible for this turn of events.

[Firefoot]

As night fell, Grask had found himself once more creeping closer and closer to the slavers’ camp, drawn by an insatiable curiosity of the strange creatures called Men. It would be a while yet before the camp quieted enough for the Orcs to make their raid, but Grask saw no reason why he couldn’t wait here just as well as farther away – so long as they didn’t catch him.

Then suddenly, many things seemed to happen at once. From somewhere nearby there came a loud bang that spooked Grask badly, and when he turned to look he saw bright colored lights exploding in the night. They seared his eyes and he blinked in pain, immediately turning away. At the same time a monstrous snarling cat leapt out of nowhere into the Mannish camp, scaring the horses so that they reared and whinnied, some breaking off into the night.

Grask ran. He started to sprint off away from the mountain cat, then realized he was heading straight for the blazing lights. He changed direction, crashing through the snarled brush to come nearly head to head with a bolting horse. The flailing hooves came dangerously close to his head, but he ducked his head and dashed on mindlessly –

– and found himself flat on his face, wind knocked out of him. Had he been able to breathe properly, he might have gone on running, but as it was he lifted himself up slowly and looked around to find what he had tripped over.

A body. Grask recoiled as if he had been struck, then slowly drew closer once more. A Man’s body, but dead, Grask realized: the throat was sliced cleanly through. This was no Orc’s work: too neat. Who, then?

Grask did not dwell on this question long. Instead, he set about exploring the Man’s body, running his hands over the strangely smooth and soft skin and examining his clothes, which fit him remarkably better than Grask’s own patched-together tunic and was made of uniformly-woven cloth. Next came the pockets. Grask found a couple of silver coins, the like of which he had seen once before, though he didn’t remember where. He pocketed these for himself. There was also some flint, which Grask left. The Man also had a bow and a quiver of arrows on his back and a knife at his belt. With some difficulty, Grask managed to remove the knife and sheath and placed them on his own belt. Now he had two knives. Already the demon-cat, whose screams were fading away, did not seem nearly so frightening, and the devilish explosions were simply lights and noise, after all. Or so he thought - until a great one lit up the sky with a bang, emblazoning itself in Grask's sight. He cowered back into the brush. Not until they stopped would Grask be going back to the Men's camp. Not him.

[Nogrod]

Hadith

Beloan had sent a friend of his, one of the original escapees, to replace Hadith on the watch over the hill sometime before noon. Hadith had seen a lonely rider riding northwards some couple of miles east from him during the morning hours. Besides that it had been dull and uneventful: just the plains and the hills, the dry grass suffering under the hot sun everywhere. The chirping of the crickets had been the only sound he had heard besides the occasional breeze of the wind. Everything, the heat, the quietness, had been oppressive.

Back in the camp of the slaves Hadith soon realised that nothing had been decided. He was disappointed but didn’t show it to Beloan to whom he reported after his duty. He had eaten something and helped Khala and Cuáran washing the wounds of an older man and changing his bandages. Seeing the cut on the man’s side and actually washing and tying it, Hadith had realised that they were not able to leave at the instant. That didn’t prevent him from getting frustrated about the situation. They were free now, but all this felt like they were intentionally waiting to be taken back to slavery, robbed of their newly acquired freedom. We’re like sheep who break free from the fence and then stop at the edge of the nearby forest, waiting to be captured again.

Hadith was idling, sharpening his beautiful Easterling knife for want of anything more reasonable to do, as Adnan approached him. He had seen the younger lad from far away and noticed his hesitation but had decided to ignore him. But at last Adnan had braved to come to Hadith and asked him: “How,... how did you…do it? How’d you…kill him, bring him down?”

Hadith didn’t consider Adnan very highly. On the contrary. One who falls asleep on guard should be despised by all. That was his opinion of Adnan. But his question had cut deep into the ponderings of Hadith. It had penetrated his own insecurity and baffledness about all that was happening in this newly acquired freedom and all that it meant. The question overwhelmed him and pushed his distaste for Adnan to the background. The insecurity of Adnan’s voice and the vulnerability of his whole demeanour reminded him of himself too strongly to just despise him. So instead of scorning him, Hadith raised his face to meet Adnan and gestured him to sit down beside him, sheathing the knife after wiping it clean to the sleeve of his skirt.

“So how?” Hadith began but paused for a while, looking at the younger boy absentmindedly, immersed in his own memories of last night. “Well, I just threw my blade... and then he fell. The others did the rest, clubbing him to death.” Hadith fell silent again, staring at the ground between his feet.

“How did you have the courage? Weren’t you afraid?”, Adnan asked Hadith sincerely.

“What do you think? Sure I was afraid!” Hadith snapped to Adnan. “I was scared like Barad-Dûr!” Hadith managed to smile thinly to Adnan but then his expression got serious again. He thought of the last night, thinking it out aloud.

“I remember it... I remember it quite vividly. After I woke up to the attack I decided that I would have to do something... Then there was the dog that attacked the girl... It jumped on me and threw myself down... I remember the warm blood splashing over my face and chest.” With that Hadith touched the front his shirt with his fingers. The stains of blood had already stiffened and hardened the fabric.

“Then the sound of the hooves started to draw closer again... they were closing in... The Easterling appeared from the darkness, shifting his lance towards me just a couple of feet away... I don’t know... I just ducked down and only felt the horse running over me as I had closed my eyes. But then I just... well, I turned around and saw the rider riding away from me. I just threw my blade to him.” Hadith was silent for a while picking small stones from the ground and dropping them down again.

“There were all kinds of noises there, but I still remember the sound of the knife hitting his back and the yell he made with the impact”, Hadith raised his eyes and looked straight at Adnan who was listening to him in awe. “That was the most terrible thing I have ever heard... I’ve seen him fall from his horse a hundred times after that... Everytime I close my eyes I see it... I took a closer look at him after he had been beaten to death. He was a young guy like you and me.” Hadith fell quiet again but Adnan dared not to break the silence even though he was baffled by his words.

“Yeah, he would have taken us captive and robbed us of our freedom. Sure he would have. It’s better he’s dead than we are slaves again, but still that doesn’t settle the things with me. The thought doesn’t help here...” Adnan looked downwards and so did Hadith. They were quiet, both in their own thoughts. After a while Hadith broke the silence, coming back to the initial question to escape his present thoughts.

“So how did I do it?” Hadith said, raising his head to meet the eyes of Adnan reacting to him speak again. “When I was a child, my father told me that everyone is scared, even the great heroes are. But what differentiates good men from spineless cowards is that the good men ignore their fear. They think of something else than just themselves at the moment of peril. Maybe that’s the way to overcome fear, not to think only of yourself?”

The realisation of the origins of these ideas hit Hadith hard. Yes, that was his father speaking! He had not remembered these things in years, but here he was; his father speaking to him when he had been very young indeed. He remembered now the expression his father had had beside his bed in the barracks long time ago.

Tears started flowing from Hadith’s eyes and soon he was crying openly. Adnan was looking at the older boy in confusion. Hadith sniffed and wiped the tears dry with his left hand. “Sorry about this. Just old memories...” But then he bursted to tears again. He was missing his father and mother. Where were they and why had they been taken away from him? Hadith felt more alone in this world he had ever felt. Cold vibrations shooked his body as he cried out to his anguish.

[Durelin]

Adnan

Adnan felt increasingly awkward as he watched Hadith fall into sadness, but he also felt his respect for the young man increasing. This man was more like himself than the fifteen year old ever would have thought. And he was even stronger than he had thought. The idea that Hadith had not been afraid, and so had acted with his wits about him, was impressive, but somehow, it filled Adnan with more awe to think that the young man had been afraid, and still had been able to take the Easterling down.

“Maybe that’s the way to overcome fear, not to think only of yourself?”

“Not to think only of yourself…”

Those words came especially as a sharp bite of pain, right into Adnan’s chest. They came across as accusatory to a still guilty conscience. Had he been thinking of himself when he fell asleep on duty? Had he been thinking of anything? This man probably blamed him, though. They probably all did, even when they smiled at him. Their kindness was forced, because there was no escaping that it was his fault. He would never get away from it. How could he change that?

Adnan looked away, looking to the ground as the other young man began to cry. He did not feel that Hadith’s tears were wrong or shameful, he just could not face the man; he could never face anyone in grief. He did not know how to share in their sadness, he did not know how to give them any comfort. Perhaps part of his confusion and inability was because he had never received comfort himself. He had never blamed anyone for it, though, and he hoped Hadith didn’t blame him for it now.

He had to do something, though. He could not just sit here…like he had fallen asleep.

“Your father was…he was wise,” Adnan forced out, stumbling over his thoughts and thus his words. He was not good with words. It took him some time to put thoughts into them, and even a simple word like ‘wise’ felt strange to him. It was difficult to put such a description into one word. “And…so are you,” he said, his words sharp and sudden as he forced them out, though utterly sincere. He gave a sharp nod at the end of his words before rising to leave Hadith to his grief.

[Durelin]

Khamir

Making a quick round of the camp as the night crept up on them all, the group still licking their wounds, physical and of another kind, Khamir felt worry anger growing slowly inside him, tightening its grip. He should have looked for Shae long before now, and gotten over his stupid pride. He should have known something important, something dangerous, was up. It had always been impossible for the one-armed man to understand that woman. He had often wondered what kind of pain manifested itself in the cuts on her hands. He had never said a word about them to anyone, much less her, but he knew they were there on purpose. But what purpose, he would never know, and he would never have to. To him, pain was pain.

He asked over and over if anyone had seen Shae, each time requiring a quicker answer as he lost any patience had had begun with. That fool woman…she was insane! What was that – bravery or madness? Should Khamir admire her, or fear for her…or both? Part of him did admire her, and the rest of him was a mix of emotions related to just how crazy the woman was. In some ways he wanted to laugh, and in others he felt sick with worry. And he was jealous: she had beat him to the glory. The glory…it was worthless out here, if it was worth anything anywhere; why did he still feel he needed it?

There was really no question where Shae had gone. She always made her displeasure obvious, and this time she had clearly been displeased with just about everything Khamir had done recently and proposed to do. She had gone back. She had gone after them. The bold, thickheaded, defiant woman. Sometimes one had to wonder if she had a death wish. By the cuts on her hands, one might definitely think so, but Khamir did not. She was a survivor. At least, she had always been…

His teeth gritted, he marched through the campsite to find one of the few people he still trusted. He so wanted to trust Shae. He had so many times before, and maybe he still did, even though his brain told him it was foolish, dangerous. To the rest of him, it felt right that he should trust her, no matter where that might lead him. Maybe he simply needed to trust in her and her abilities, trust that she was still alive. Catching Beloan’s eye upon finding him, the man followed Khamir a few paces away from others.

“She really is gone,” the, perhaps former, gang leader whispered.

Beloan let out a pained sigh, and then silently stared at his companion, as if waiting for something.

Khamir did not notice, staring at the ground beneath him. “I am such a fool,” he muttered.

The other man snuck a smile, the one-armed man still looking down. “It is too late for blaming yourself, or anyone.”

Too late…they were all running out of time. Either direction they chose to go, the time they had to make their decision was rapidly growing shorter. Perhaps it had already ran out, and they were now living on luck, trying fate. But Khamir could not feel afraid.

“We have to act before dawn, as long before it as we can manage. Tell the others, and pick… No, we will tell everyone. We will ask for those who can, who wish, to volunteer. We need a party to go after the bounty hunters, to rescue the children, and to find Shae… And we need others, everyone, to be prepared to guard the camp. If you’d like to head the latter group…” Khamir trailed off, as Beloan was already shaking his head.

“No, I go with you,” he said simply. He knew, before any talk of parties, what group the one-armed Southron intended to be a part of.