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

[Brinniel]

Eirnar stood at the center of the chaos, his shirtsleeve torn and bloody from a cut on his shoulder. In his right hand, he clutched a knife already stained from use. Throughout the night, he had followed his fellow ex-slaves from the tunnels to the camp, defending himself in every way possible along the way. Standing now covered in sweat and blood, the man could not help but feel overwhelmed. This night seemed to be lasting forever….how long had it been since the battle first begun?

Another ex-slave nearly slammed into Eirnar as she ran by, apologizing briefly as she continued on. Eirnar turned his head in the direction the woman had come from where several slavers began to pursue their victims. The man watched in horror as the slavers slaughtered women and children before one cried out, “Hold! We need them alive if we’re to sell them. Dead, they do us no good.” The men then began to club the women, and one by one they went down. One of those who fell victim to the clubs was Aedhild. Instead of running away from the charging men, she ran towards them, shrieking furiously. One slaver swung his club, then she too went down.

Panic set in Eirnar. During the rush of the battle he had completely forgotten about the poor woman. He had been hesitant as Aedhild’s protector at first, but it was a role he had slowly accepted, and seeing her fall, the man sensed failure for the one task he was meant for.

Pandemonium was in the atmosphere as women and children ran past Eirnar, fearing for their lives. As the slavers rode their horses after them, Eirnar took this opportunity to rescue Aedhild before she fell completely in the hands of the enemy. In the confusion, the man managed to reach the older woman and pull her into the brush without being seen.

Aedhild laid unconscious, blood pouring profusely from a deep gash on the side of her head. Apparently, the slaver had gotten slightly carried away when he clubbed her. Eirnar tore extra cloth from his shirt to help staunch the bleeding, but it seemed to do very little. The woman had suffered from so much, and already she was beginning to look rather pale. Eirnar looked around frantically. Where was the healer? Aedhild needed proper care…and soon.

Eirnar flinched as a set of hooves whirled by, nearly trampling the two. Still applying pressure to her wound, the man gritted his teeth in frustration, cursing into the darkness. “Don’t you die, Aedhild, I won’t let you,” he said aloud. “You live through this and I promise…I won’t ever fail you again. If I am to be your protector, then protect you I will.”

Eirnar could not understand why he felt so attached to this pathetic woman, why he so desperately wished her to live. For so long she had been a burden to him…and yet, at the same time….she had given him something else. For the first time in years, the man had a reason to live, an actual purpose to his own pitiful existence. As Eirnar cradled Aedhild in his arms, he came to realize that he needed her just as much as she needed him. And that in itself was enough of a reason for both of them to survive the night.

The shouting was slowly dying down and there was no longer a slaver in sight. Aedhild’s wound continued to bleed, and Eirnar knew she could not wait much longer. Wrapping his arms around her, he snatched up the surprisingly light woman and took off in the direction where the injured lay, searching for the healer.

[Tevildo]

Azhar's post

The noise and smell of battle threatened to overwhelm the girl as she struggled to open her eyes. With great effort, Azhar reached out and latched onto a small limb of a bramble bush that was growing nearby. Ignoring the thorns that left deep scratches along the back of her hand, she labored to pull her body into an upright position and stared out across the grove, straining to see what was happening. The sky overhead was dark and bleak. This time it was not the storm that painted the heavens a murky black, but the fact that they had been fighting so hard for so many hours. Azhar stared upward, seeking some sign of consolation, but not a single star was visible above.

The girl's head was pounding with hurt and confusion; her side ached horribly, where she had slammed against the sharp edge of a rock. Yet that pain was nothing compared with the sight that greeted her eyes. There was chaos and tumult everywhere. The bodies of three women littered the ground, and the dread horsemen had not left. They galloped from one fleeing party to the next, swords and nets in hand, attempting to round up more of their victims.

Rôg, where was Rôg? Where was the great dragon that could sweep into the heavens and chase away the riders? Azhar quickly glanced around. But Rôg had fallen, huddled in a ball of pain and blackness. She could make out his shape and form concealed by a scrub bush just a short distance away--- a tall gangly man, dressed in robes that seemed more like those of a scholar or scribe than a warrior in the midst of battle. She could not even tell if the southerner was still alive. Nor could she guess the reason why he had not taken on another form to save himself. Her stomach lurched, and she wretched on the ground.

Her first thought was to try and do something to save those who were fleeing and could not fight for themselves. But even if she had the strength or will, she had no weapon of her own. A bright image of a great bear rising up from the ground slipped inside her mind. But it was nothing more than an illusion. No matter how hard she concentrated or how much she tried to pour herself into the form, her body did not respond. She was a small human figure on a bloody battlefield, seemingly deserted by all her friends.

She quickly drew herself to her feet and started to sprint out of the grove, but a sharp pain in her ankle told her this would be impossible. It was only a simple sprain, something that would clear up with a good stiff bandage and a day or two of rest. But right now she had neither of these. Unable to run away, she nervously looked around, her eyes widening in fear and surprise as a single rider came sweeping in her direction. The slaver galloped up, slid off his horse's back, and, with one swift motion, grabbed her by the hair and forced her head back. For several minutes, Azhar struggled, screaming and kicking in a desperate attempt to get away. She managed to yank herself forward and, by violently twisting her neck to one side, positioned her head to clamp down on the man's arm, biting as hard as she could. The slaver howled in pain, then reached down and drew out a long glinting dagger, brandishing it threateningly an inch from her neck.

Helpless and defeated, Azhar let go and slumped to the ground as the man tied her wrists together and clamped on an iron bracelet with a long trailing chain . He remounted his horse and began loping forward, as she stumbled along behind him. "You'll fetch a good price on the market." he crowed, sounding entirely pleased with himself.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Post for Lindir and Carl

Reaching the section of the grove where Carl and Dirand were fighting proved more difficult than Lindir had originally envisioned. The ground was so littered with battle debris that the elf found himself clambering around fallen bodies and the discarded remains of broken weapons. More than once, he stopped to ward off an assault. While the number of slavers fighting was much smaller than earlier in the day, those who remained were pushing their attack near the entrance to the grove and were pouring into the sheltered area where the women and children had hidden. Plus, the knot of combatants crammed into the small grove made it difficult for anyone to push through the crowds.

By the time Lindir reached the spot where he had first seen the two fighting, Carl and Dirand were scuttling about on foot. Two of the slavers lay dead on the ground. With a manner almost as graceful as any Elf, Carl had managed to glide up to the skittish mare and, by using a soft hand and voice, calm her enough that the pair could remount. Yet before they could gain a secure seat in the saddle, the third slaver had come galloping up with a sharp glaive tacked onto a long pole. He waved this threateningly under Carl’s nose. Dirand’s wild whacks with the sword came up short of his target, while the hobbit had to pull back abruptly on the reins to swing the animal around to avoid the slashing menace of the broad knifelike blade. With a mighty heave, the slaver aimed the glaive directly at Carl’s left shoulder. The blade glanced off, but ran down the length of the hobbit’s forearm, leaving a shallow gash marked by a thin trail of blood.

Lindir had sprinted the last stretch of ground and came within fifteen feet of the pikeman just as the latter was howling in satisfaction at having scored at least a minor victory. Ripping out his bow and putting two arrows to the string in quick succession, the elf let go of his shots one after the other. The first whizzed by within a hair’s breadth of the man’s head; the second barely grazed the horse’s flanks and caused him to whirl about in pain, changing the direction of his attack. Man and horse took off at a gallop, heading straight for the grove where the women and children were running about in panic. Lindir glanced over his shoulder at Carl and gestured with his hand to show they needed to head in that direction.

*************

Post for Aiwendil

The boar had chased the slaver far out on the plain until he had lost the human scent. At that point Aiwendil stopped for a moment and gazed up at the dark night sky, half expecting to glimpse a gigantic flying beast silhouetted against the empty heavens. But the wyrm was nowhere to be seen. Nor could he sense the presence of any prey close enough to hunt or even a small patch of vegetation for a quick snack. Hungry and irritated, the istar let the boar form slip away, morphed into the familiar guise of an elderly man wearing long brown robes, and began trudging back to where he had left his friends. Even in man form, his stomach continued to complain. Moreover, Aiwendil was embarrassed at having chased the slaver for such a long time without actually catching him. He was at least five miles away from camp. The fighting would likely be over by the time he had returned to the point where he’d started.

His original path had led him several miles north and east of the battle site into a territory that was strange to him. Behind his back were the shadowy peaks of the Mountains of Shadow that curved down from the north on either side of the entrance of the Plateau of Gorgoroth. The ground was littered with rocks and debris. He walked quickly and steadily southward, as his mind replayed several of the earlier battle scenes and wondered whether they should have done things differently. Aiwendil was so engrossed in these questions that he almost failed to notice the steady, rhythmic vibration of the soil beneath his feet, as if a great distant army was on the move.

Plopping down on the ground to rest for a moment, the old man finally awoke to his danger. The earth throbbed with the tramp of heavy footsteps, regular and even and definitely heading towards him. He flattened his body behind a large boulder and waited. Closer and faster the vibrations came until they were nearly upon him.

Afraid to lift up his head too far, Aiwendil remained prone, but could make out the words that were being tossed back and forth between those who now marched only fifteen feet away. It was the Black Speech: the pure Black Speech that Sauron spoke at the height of his power. Orcs did not speak like that. They used slang and often mixed in words from Westron. The only creatures who talked in this manner were the wraiths and spirits within Sauron’s inner circle, plus a chosen few of the enemy who had been taught language and twisted lore by the Dark Lord himself. Aiwendil felt a cold chill pass through his body.

Determined to get a closer look, the istar inched his body upward and was surprised to find that this was no army. It had not been the number of marchers but their size and scale that had caused the earth to shake. There were five shadow creatures encased in hard scales with forms that were taller and heavier than any Elf or Uruk that the old man had ever seen. These giants carried battle hammers in their claw like grips. Each member of the hunting party bore two or three animal carcasses slung haphazardly over his shoulder. As the last of the party tramped by and vanished in the distance, Aiwendil saw with sickening certainty that two human bodies hung casually amid the trophies.

So discouraged was the old man that he could not even bear to utter the words of Black Speech by which these monsters were called. At the same time, he tried to convince himself that this could not be happening. Gandalf had reported that, once released from Sauron’s control, these vile and cunning creatures had scattered mindlessly, wandering off without direction. Yet the members of this party clearly knew where they were going and, from the few words of the Black Speech that the old man could make out, expected to join an even larger group of cohorts in the north. Worst of all, if these were the same creatures that had terrorized Mordor in the late Third Age, their home lay in the exact spot where the fellowship and rebels had planned to establish a settlement: the foothills of the mountains within the Plateau of Gorgoroth. Right now, exhausted and battle weary, neither he nor anyone else from their own camp would dare to give chase and challenge them. But one thing was certain: if the freed slaves and fellowship continued on to the foothills, the two groups would eventually collide. With a long sigh, Aiwendil continued his slow trudge back to the sport where his friends were fighting, wondering how and when he would break this news to Lindir.

[Firefoot]

Don't let the Uruks see it… Just remember who gave this pouch to you… someday I may need you to guard my back. Grask was too young to understand the finer points of the politics within the Orc band, but after Ishkur had spoken to him, he understood one thing loud and clear: the Uruks weren’t really their allies. He shouldn’t trust them.

And he realized something else: he belonged to a group; he was important to the Orcs, or at least to Ishkur. First they had let him partake of their ale, and now he had been given some coins. Even though Ishkur had told him to put them away, Grask couldn’t help but opening the little pouch up first and seeing the coins for himself. It was just as Ishkur had told him: seven coppers and two silvers. Grask felt rich. He put them away quickly, though, stowing them in his pack. Then he wandered off, wondering just how it was that he would be able to help.

[Folwren]

Athwen knew at once when the slavers burst in upon the women. The shouts and screams of anger and fear alerted her. She quickly finished up bandaging the wound on which she was currently working. Then she stood, glanced about her at the forms lying stretched out on the ground or huddled in a sitting position, and went to her personal pack. Beside it lay a slender belt with a dagger and sheath attached to it. She picked it up and strapped it around her waist. What good it would do her, she didn’t know, but she did not want to be without something to use as a weapon and the dagger was all she had.

The wind had dropping dramatically between the time she had first started working on the wounded and now. But by this time, it was difficult to see not because of the blowing sand, but because of the darkness of night. It was not altogether black. Athwen could make out the forms of people running hither and thither and she also spotted the few men on horseback that still rode confidently among the women and children.

Where were the men? And where were her friends – the members of the fellowship? Where was Dorran? In the dimness, she could not see anything that could answer any of these questions, unless the people she wanted to find were those bodies crumpled on the ground.

But one of those bodies was moving. It rose slowly, grasping a scraggly plant for support. Athwen, walking forward, recognized Azhar. The girl seemed dazed and hurt as she looked about her. When she tried to walk, Athwen noted a severe limp.

Before Azhar saw Athwen and before the woman could catch the girl’s attention, a tall rider seemed to materialize out from the darkness. He leaped down just beside Azhar and Athwen was forced to witness the mostly one-sided struggle. She ran forward, threading her way through rocks and bushes as best she could. In the darkness, she could see no path and no way through, and it took her too much time to reach the slaver and Azhar.

As she ran, doing her best to reach them, she watched with frantic eyes Azhar’s hands were bound. The man remounted his horse, leaving the girl on the ground, and turned the animal’s head, starting away. Azhar stumbled behind him, limping painfully on a week or hurt foot.

Athwen cleared the last bushes. She ran forward, unsure of what she would do when she reached them. Stop the horse first, she imagined. The horse was only walking quickly, he wasn’t even trotting yet. Athwen quickened her speed. She darted about the rider’s knees before he realized she was there, and she grabbed the nearest rein and brought his head about.

“What?” the slaver cried, looking down at her. He swore violently and his hand reached for his curved sword at his belt. He drew it in a flash and swung towards Athwen. She dodged beneath the horse’s neck and onto the other side. As she went, her hand reached for her own blade. The dagger flashed out and as she passed the rider’s other leg, she slashed out with it. He turned half way about, swinging his sword up again, regardless of her blow.

Athwen dodged away again, but the slaver had his horse’s head again and he was turning him about. Athwen cried aloud for fear of Azhar, still bound to the animal.

But before she could think of anything to do or where to go, another figure on horseback dashed up. She looked up and a great throb burst in her chest. She recognized the proud and handsome profile of her husband as he raised his sword and met the slaver’s blade.

Athwen turned and ran towards Azhar. The girl was sitting on the ground, her head down and her hands held gently against her ankle. Speaking gently to her, Athwen made quick work of cutting the ropes around the girl’s wrists, but the iron bracelets made her stop. She looked down at the trailing chain and picked it up. The slaver must have dropped the end while he drew his sword. She was glad of that. Azhar was at least free to go.

She turned towards the girl and knelt beside her. “Azhar, are you alright?” she asked. Azhar shook her head and lifted her face towards Athwen. Tears shown on her face and her voice sounded a little choked as she answered.

“My ankle hurts! I can hardly walk.”

“Let me help you then. Come on.” Trying hard not to sound as worried and shaken as she felt, Athwen continued, “We’ve got to get away from those two before we’re trampled on.” She helped Azhar up, slipped an arm under Azhar’s arms to give her support, and then slowly led her away.

[Tevildo]

Dorran breathed a sigh of relief as he glimpsed his wife and Azhar slowly pick their way amid the wreckage of the battlefield and return to the corner of the grove where the slavers had not yet managed to break through. The sick and the injured still lay safe within that protected circle. With luck, they would be able to beat back the last of the attackers and keep them from doing much more damage. The toll of lives had already been heavy, and he had no wish to see it grow.

All this flashed through his mind in the space of no more than a few seconds. The rest of his attention was rivetted on the man who now slashed and fought opposite him. An experienced Rider of Rohan, Dorran would normally have been able to take out a fighter such as this one without too much difficulty. The man was bold and brash and wielded a great broadsword, but he lacked the discipline and patience that was the hallmark of a truly effective warrior. The two leaned out and exchanged a series of volleys on horseback, with Dorran gaining ground stroke by stroke and forcing the slaver and his horse to retreat a few feet at a time. He had maneuvered the man and his horse over to the ring of boulders that stood at the edge of the grove and was almost at the point of finishing him off when a chance blow caught him on the side of his temple.

Fire and pain rang through Dorran's head. The blow was in the exact spot where he had been wounded the day before when he and Shae had first ridden out on the plains. Struggling to keep a grip on the reins, Dorran saw a thousand stars flash before his eyes. A grey curtain descended as his body slumped to one side and he slipped from his horse, falling to the ground with a thud.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir's eyes widened in alarm as he turned to the side and caught a glimpse of Dorran toppling to the ground. He dashed forward across the grove as only an elf can do, intent on reaching the fallen man before the slaver could react. By the time Lindir made it to the boulders, the slaver had already whipped out a large net and taken aim for Dorran. Once the snare had tightened, he eagerly reached out and prepared to drag his captive onto the front of this saddle. One good heave and he had accomplished his goal, whipped his horse around, and begun to gallop off with his prize.

Lindir again pulled an arrow from his quiver and took aim at the man. Being careful to avoid Dorran's body, which was still encased in the net and hanging lengthwise across the horse's withers, he put the nock to the string and let the arrow loose. An instant later and the slaver had keeled to the ground, the shaft protruding from his back. For the second time that day, Dorran fell with a thud, tumbling off the horse onto the rocky ground.

Lindir sprinted over to where Dorran lay and cradled the Rider's body in his arms, heading towards the back of the grove where the injured had been taken. All around him noise and confusion reigned. At least two more slavers, the final ones still standing upright on the battlefield, had joined their original three companions in trying to assault the inner grove. But slowly and gradually, the freed slaves and members of the fellowship were beating back the attack.