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

[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.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl and Dirand rode off in the direction Lindir indicated, following the slaver’s horse toward the grove. And as he renewed his grip on the reins, Carl’s forearm burned mightily, but he kept his eyes fixed on the black horse in front of him as it reappeared between a large stone and the scrub brush, arching its way through the chaotic landscape. In pursuit, the borrowed mount amazed its ungainly riders, closing the distance with sure footed agility, so that the hobbit fancied the beast’s own heart were set on defeating the slavers. But in truth the horse was accustomed to hunting men, and had been trained to it, becoming well-versed in what was required to follow such wily prey.

Unfortunately, neither the old man Dirand, nor Carl had the benefit of such training themselves, and poor slavers they would have made. For when the horse in front of him suddenly leapt into the air in order to clear the rambling bushes, Carl was horrified to see a knot of cowering children directly in front of him, held captive there in a heavily tangled net. He closed his eyes and pushed his heels down, leaning forward to take hold of the blowing mane, as his own horse jumped over them. At the same instant he felt Dirand slide off the horse behind him, followed by a chorus of shrill cries. Then there was a sharp jolt as the horse found the ground again, and the hobbit too, fell from the saddle.

Bruised, but in one piece, Carl stood up to find that he had fallen next to the body of an older woman. ”Brenna,” he exclaimed in disbelief, “Aw mercy ...not Gwennith too!” he said, feeling it as a blow to his heart. And as his focus widened, he saw that the small grove was strewn with bodies, and the fighting continued. Carl quickly knelt beside Brenna and her two companions, hoping to find some sign of life in them, but they were already blanched white, and it was rapidly apparent that he should tend to the living.

Getting up once more, Carl ran to the other side of the brush where Dirand was trying to free the children from the net with one hand. He wore a grimace on his face as he hacked away at the plant with his sword, his other arm dangling limply at his side. “Careful with that sword there man!” Carl said. “Are you all right?”

“I've done something to my arm, Carl, and it hurts like nothing I've known. Can you get these youngsters out for me? I can't manage it,” Dirand pleaded, handing the hobbit his sword. Carl took the took it from him, but quickly set it aside, asking to see the old man's arm. He could clearly see that it had been pushed out of joint at the shoulder, and so taking it he pulled, twisting it carefully until he heard it pop back in it's place.

“Your sure to be sore after that one, but a lucky man you are that you didn't break it!” the hobbit said taking his belt and quickly tying Dirand's arm to his chest. Together then, they both finished cutting the net free, releasing the children, who looked to them for direction. But Carl didn't know what to tell them.

“Go lay on the ground near the stones, and play like you are dead. Don't move and don't speak,” Dirand instructed them. “Not until the fighting is done. And watch out for the horses!” the old man added, as an after thought. Carl realized grimly that if he and all of his companions were dead or captured, these poor children would inevitably be discovered by the slavers. But neither could they fend for themselves in this rough land, so fleeing was as good as a slow death, and Dirand's advice was sound. But how many might already be scattered out on the plain?

The wide-eyed children did as they were told, and the hobbit and the old man ran to enter the grove again, were the fighting was thick. Five slavers and the riderless horses were milling about the small space as old and young alike sought to rout them.

Carl was dismayed to see that Dorran was down. But Lindir, who had made it back safely had reached him, and was carrying him away. And spotting a particular fight quickly going sour, as a strong young man was expertly drawn away from the others and cornered with his back to a rock, Dirand and Carl quickly joined the fray, plaguing the rider's horse, so when it reached around trying to bite them, the man was able to extricate himself. Together the three of them followed that horse, as the slaver turned to join the others, and where the slaver that Carl and Dirand had chased, was now yelling something roughly to the others, in a language Carl could not understand.

[Durelin]

The dead bodies Shae and Khamir came across as they entered the grove were frightening, and they began to think the worst. He saw a woman and a child, and he knew that the slavers really had attacked those most helpless. With what strength they had, the two former slaves headed toward the sounds of battle, though the sensible parts of their minds tried to instruct them otherwise. As the screams and shouts grew louder, the two saw two other figures ahead of them, obviously slavers, heading in the same direction. Khamir marveled at how deep into the grove the Easterlings had managed to get, and he felt sick not only because of his wounds and exhaustion.

“Let’s try to be quiet,” the Southron whispered to Shae, “If we can sneak up on those guys, we’ll have a chance.”

Shae nodded in response, and they crept farther into the grove, in the footsteps of the golden-clad men. When the two slavers suddenly lurched forward, weapons raised, Khamir and Shae raced forward, as well. The one-armed man screamed in pain as he leapt off of both his good and bad leg, but he managed to propel himself onto one of the enemies, plunging his knife down as he did, forcing the blade into the back of the Easterling’s neck.

As the man fell before him, Khamir stumbled forward himself, and he found his eyes watching the ground, the dying body, and the other end of his dagger come at him, knowing that his reaction would be too slow to stop himself from…

Something suddenly crossed into his line of vision and he felt himself hit something soft, and felt a strong grip on his arm. He was righted, and found himself staring into the eyes of Beloan. Khamir could only smile in gratitude, and his friend smiled back. Then they both turned to Shae, to see her sheathing her own knife, the other Easterling dead at her feet with stab wounds from both Beloan and the woman, from forward and behind. Khamir smirked: his two friends were already on the move again, and he was left to slump to the ground next to his latest kill.

There came a shout retreat from one of the slavers who still persisted in battle: “Retreat, these dogs can bite!” The Easterling raged in his own tongue as he broke away from confrontation and took off out of the grove, almost stumbling over dead bodies as he went. The others followed as best they could. Some of the former slaves who still had fervor in them chased after their enemies or fired at them with their bows. But it was clear that even all of the energy these fighters had left wasn’t put into this effort. Khamir smiled. They were not like those Easterlings, they were better, and they had won…

A groan shook the form he had thought forever-still in front of him. His heart leapt, and as if by reflex he reached for a throwing dagger. The blade was drawn, but Khamir did not move into action, even as he watched the slaver wrench the knife out of himself and struggle slowly to his feet. The Southron had worried there was not enough force behind his blade, and he had not gotten to finish the job…but he did not regret it.

The Easterling gripped Khamir’s knife as he turned around to face the one-armed man. The enemies’ eyes met, but neither attacked. The slaver threw the blade onto the ground and took off after his companions. Khamir watched him go, and did nothing. He looked up, and saw Shae looking at him, her face startlingly blank.

“We are free!” Beloan roared, his voice louder and stronger than his friend had ever heard it. The response was loud and heart-felt, if a little ragged.

Shae and Beloan did their best to help Khamir to Athwen and the wounded, as his leg began to refuse to support his weight at all, but each helped support the other just to keep them standing, all three exhausted and hurt. The one-armed man was relieved to see so many of his companions alive, if not all very well. Lindir was carrying Dorran, but reported he was still alive. Vrór was still unconscious, but his breathing was slowly returning to normal. Carl was wounded, but still on his feet, and Athwen was still fine. Rôg had only recently awakened, but it seemed he was recovering nicely. Khamir could momentarily forget the dead.

But the Southron had left Adnan conscious, so when he saw the young man lying still on the ground, he broke away from his friends and stumbled towards him. And though he found the boy was breathing, he sat down beside him and would not leave.

The battle was over, but as he looked around him at Vrór and Adnan and others lying bandaged and suffering, he knew the fight was not over, and remembered that their journey was far from it.

Now he knew they could do it, though – and they would make it. They could be free people, together.

[Durelin]

Khamir and Adnan

The movement and sounds around him, from shouts of joy to grieving sobbing, blurred as Khamir felt his mind drifting and his eyelids willing themselves shut. Shae was alive, Adnan was alive, Beloan, Hadith, Johari… It was over, and he could rest now…sleep now…

“Where’d they go?” a hoarse voice asked beside him. His eyes snapped open to meet Adnan’s. Khamir smiled, glad to see the boy awake. He snorted a laugh as he watched Adnan try to sit up, shaking his head.

“They’re gone. We’ve won. So there will be no more heroics for you,” he grinned, but the young man didn’t smile back, and looked away.

“I did nothing heroic,” Adnan murmured bitterly, obviously finding it difficult to allow the words out of his mouth. “The…the way…what I did…” he turned his eyes back to Khamir, “It was wrong.”

Khamir sighed and frowned with concern. The way the boy had…slaughtered that slaver had scared him, he knew. Perhaps the blood he saw cover Adnan, who had put childhood behind him by only a few years, had made him stay his hand in the end, because he had grown so sick of it.

“But that’s what makes you different from people like them,” Khamir told the young man with quiet severity and sincerity, “from those slavers – you know it was wrong.”

Adnan was silent for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was strangely hollow, the obvious emotion missing from its tone. “He used to beat me and laugh. He was an Easterling. I hate them. All of them.”

The younger man’s confession made his actions suddenly clear to Khamir, and tore at his heart. “And how does vengeance feel?” the one-armed man asked. More silence followed, while Khamir listened to both his and the boy’s ragged breaths.

“Terrible.”