Flight from Rohan RPG - The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum

piosenniel · 07-13-2003, 01:21 AM

Himaran's post

It was a rowdy night at the White Horse Inn. Flushed faces laughed uproariously as card games (and money) were won and lost, and rounds of drinks bought for the victors and the vanquished alike. The fire blazed and stung the eyes of those who came too close to its hearth. Outside it was quiet as the stars shone down on the still night in Rohan. A stray breeze whistled through the tall grass as if to signify that something was about to occur.

Inside three brothers sat bemoaning their misfortunes at the card tables for the night. The small birdlike member of the party turned to the one in the center, as if he was the natural leader of the group. “Fréa, we need to be going.” “Aye,” the other answered. Rising from his chair he turned and paid their fee, borrowing a few coins from the silent one of the trio, whose facial lines marked him as the eldest. As he made his way to the door Fréa was met by a stumbling, gray-haired man who fell heavily against his shoulder knocking the pair to the ground in the doorway. Fréa’s eyes blazed as he gathered himself up off the floor. “Thou art an old drunken fool! If your own eyes cannot guide you perhaps you should obtain a walking stick and use it to find your way!”

The old man looked through bleary eyes at him and shook his head. “Young one, you have much to learn…” He drawled off as Fréa’s hand rose, only to be caught by his eldest brother. “Come Fréa.” Cursing, Fréa was led outside. As the youngest of trio passed the old man, he gave him a shove that sent him out the doorway.

The three were walking somewhat unsteadily when they were hailed from behind. Rapidly approaching them was the old man, demanding an apology. He grasped Fréa’s collar, asking in loud tones if this was how they treated all of the men who had done their time in the King’s service. Fréa’s eyes turned bright red, and his memory went hazy as his fists flew into the man, pummeling him into the ground. His boots found a target and ribs cracked.

When he regained his senses his two brothers were dragging him behind a shed. He was covered in blood, his own and that of the man. “Fréa, that was incredible!” His younger brothers eyes were shining. “Fool! You’ve killed a man, you’ve killed old Folca.” his older brother snapped. Fréa found that his hands were shaking nearly uncontrollably as he rose to his feet. His fingers were dripping red. Walking over he found the old man lying in a pool of blood. He had to act. He had to act fast. “Help me.” He ordered his brothers. Neither of them moved. “Help me!” Slowly they followed him and helped him sling the old man over Fréa’s shoulders.

They passed stealthily through the rest of the town following their leader until he arrived at their destination. “This is the hut of the scoundrel that cost me a month’s wages tonight,” Fréa explained. Pushing the door open quietly, they filed in, the youngest holding a lit candle. They placed the old man so that he would appear hidden, but could easily be found with a little effort. Cleaning up their tracks they exited. Fréa suddenly felt calm, as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He allowed himself a soft laugh. “This may even work to our advantage.” Behind him his younger brother gave a cackle but the oldest wore a mask of grim defeat. Fréa turned. “Come, I believe father still has a few old bottles of last year’s brew left. Let us celebrate our card victory.”

And as the trio walked off towards their distant home the moon shone red on a young Rohirrim saying goodnight to the barmaids before he left for the evening.

^*^*^*^*^

“May I see him now, sir?”

“Yes, but remember; he may be your brother, but he is a criminal and a murderer. Do not think that he will be at all pleased to see you. He knows his fate; the penalty for murdering a former servant of the king is death.”

Pushing the guard’s words aside, as well as the man himself, Brytta Hildeson strode into the dungeon where his brother Heldór was being kept. As he sat down on a block outside the cell, his brother looked up and gave him a faint smile, attempting to throw some levity into his dire predicament. “Glad to see you, brother. What is life like outside this box that I’m living in?”

“Keep your voice down. It will be far better once you’re out of here.”

“What do you mean by that, Brytta? I’ll be out of this cell soon enough, but not by your hands.”

“Listen, Heldór. I can’t explain right now, but I know who murdered old Folca, and it certainly was not you. Several of my friends and I are going to break you out tomorrow. I’m not going to let you be executed just because of the cowardice of a lone man and his wretched siblings.”

“It sounds lovely, but where shall I go? If I am caught…”

“We’re going north. I have a plan to help us get you safely out of Rohan, and from there we will follow the Old South road to a small town called Bree. I can find you a place to stay there. Hopefully, I can prove who the true murderer was, and have you pardoned.”

Reaching through the bars, Heldór clasped his brother’s hand in a tight grip. “Thank you Brytta, thank you for everything you’ve done to help me; before and now.”

^*^*^*^*^

That night, Brytta ran along a path toward the White Horse Inn, stumbling over rocks and rotting logs in his haste. In his cloak the Knight carried a crude map of the prison area, complete with the markings of an escape route he had created.

Finally reaching his destination, Brytta hurried inside and found a booth in the back of the Inn, a virtually deserted area. Retrieving the map, he looked over it one last time while he waited for the others to arrive.

[ July 15, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

07-13-2003, 01:21 AM	#1
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Flight from Rohan RPG Himaran's post It was a rowdy night at the White Horse Inn. Flushed faces laughed uproariously as card games (and money) were won and lost, and rounds of drinks bought for the victors and the vanquished alike. The fire blazed and stung the eyes of those who came too close to its hearth. Outside it was quiet as the stars shone down on the still night in Rohan. A stray breeze whistled through the tall grass as if to signify that something was about to occur. Inside three brothers sat bemoaning their misfortunes at the card tables for the night. The small birdlike member of the party turned to the one in the center, as if he was the natural leader of the group. “Fréa, we need to be going.” “Aye,” the other answered. Rising from his chair he turned and paid their fee, borrowing a few coins from the silent one of the trio, whose facial lines marked him as the eldest. As he made his way to the door Fréa was met by a stumbling, gray-haired man who fell heavily against his shoulder knocking the pair to the ground in the doorway. Fréa’s eyes blazed as he gathered himself up off the floor. “Thou art an old drunken fool! If your own eyes cannot guide you perhaps you should obtain a walking stick and use it to find your way!” The old man looked through bleary eyes at him and shook his head. “Young one, you have much to learn…” He drawled off as Fréa’s hand rose, only to be caught by his eldest brother. “Come Fréa.” Cursing, Fréa was led outside. As the youngest of trio passed the old man, he gave him a shove that sent him out the doorway. The three were walking somewhat unsteadily when they were hailed from behind. Rapidly approaching them was the old man, demanding an apology. He grasped Fréa’s collar, asking in loud tones if this was how they treated all of the men who had done their time in the King’s service. Fréa’s eyes turned bright red, and his memory went hazy as his fists flew into the man, pummeling him into the ground. His boots found a target and ribs cracked. When he regained his senses his two brothers were dragging him behind a shed. He was covered in blood, his own and that of the man. “Fréa, that was incredible!” His younger brothers eyes were shining. “Fool! You’ve killed a man, you’ve killed old Folca.” his older brother snapped. Fréa found that his hands were shaking nearly uncontrollably as he rose to his feet. His fingers were dripping red. Walking over he found the old man lying in a pool of blood. He had to act. He had to act fast. “Help me.” He ordered his brothers. Neither of them moved. “Help me!” Slowly they followed him and helped him sling the old man over Fréa’s shoulders. They passed stealthily through the rest of the town following their leader until he arrived at their destination. “This is the hut of the scoundrel that cost me a month’s wages tonight,” Fréa explained. Pushing the door open quietly, they filed in, the youngest holding a lit candle. They placed the old man so that he would appear hidden, but could easily be found with a little effort. Cleaning up their tracks they exited. Fréa suddenly felt calm, as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He allowed himself a soft laugh. “This may even work to our advantage.” Behind him his younger brother gave a cackle but the oldest wore a mask of grim defeat. Fréa turned. “Come, I believe father still has a few old bottles of last year’s brew left. Let us celebrate our card victory.” And as the trio walked off towards their distant home the moon shone red on a young Rohirrim saying goodnight to the barmaids before he left for the evening. ^^^^^ “May I see him now, sir?” “Yes, but remember; he may be your brother, but he is a criminal and a murderer. Do not think that he will be at all pleased to see you. He knows his fate; the penalty for murdering a former servant of the king is death.” Pushing the guard’s words aside, as well as the man himself, Brytta Hildeson strode into the dungeon where his brother Heldór was being kept. As he sat down on a block outside the cell, his brother looked up and gave him a faint smile, attempting to throw some levity into his dire predicament. “Glad to see you, brother. What is life like outside this box that I’m living in?” “Keep your voice down. It will be far better once you’re out of here.” “What do you mean by that, Brytta? I’ll be out of this cell soon enough, but not by your hands.” “Listen, Heldór. I can’t explain right now, but I know who murdered old Folca, and it certainly was not you. Several of my friends and I are going to break you out tomorrow. I’m not going to let you be executed just because of the cowardice of a lone man and his wretched siblings.” “It sounds lovely, but where shall I go? If I am caught…” “We’re going north. I have a plan to help us get you safely out of Rohan, and from there we will follow the Old South road to a small town called Bree. I can find you a place to stay there. Hopefully, I can prove who the true murderer was, and have you pardoned.” Reaching through the bars, Heldór clasped his brother’s hand in a tight grip. “Thank you Brytta, thank you for everything you’ve done to help me; before and now.” ^^^^^ That night, Brytta ran along a path toward the White Horse Inn, stumbling over rocks and rotting logs in his haste. In his cloak the Knight carried a crude map of the prison area, complete with the markings of an escape route he had created. Finally reaching his destination, Brytta hurried inside and found a booth in the back of the Inn, a virtually deserted area. Retrieving the map, he looked over it one last time while he waited for the others to arrive. [ July 15, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ] __________________ Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.