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

[Folwren]

Athwen stood in the warm darkness by herself. She felt cold, though, despite the warmth of the night. She paced back and forth before the picketed horses, looking in the direction of camp. The minutes seemed to pass like hours and the silence felt overbearing, save where one of the horse’s moved, and then the motion sounded overly loud and grated on her ears.

“Waiting is agonizing,” she said aloud, stopping and turning to face fully in the direction of camp. Her hands clasped behind her tightly, clenched hard like the knot in her stomach. “I rather wish I could have gone and been part of it all.”

Before the thought had fully left her mind and mouth, Aiwendil’s light filled the sky and the blast of its thunder reported in the stone hills on all sides. Athwen blinked half blinded eyes, but she had less than a fraction of a moment to consider her own surprise when she turned towards the horses. Two horses, tied just beside each other, reared and plunged, pulling at their lines.

Athwen darted forward. “Oh, hush – hush!” she cried softly. She reached the most terrified one, carefully avoiding the taught line and his front hooves. “Quietly, now! It’s alright.” She reached up as high as her short stature allowed her, attempting with all her might to reach the horse’s head. He brought it down suddenly without her touching him, he stepped forward a step and then tried to lunge back again. Athwen’s hands caught frantically at his head and pulled it down. “No, no,” she panted, one hand cupping about his mouth. “Don’t say anything. For heaven’s sake, don’t do that.” He jerked back and the fierce neigh broke out. Athwen cringed, but figured the worse was over.

Now chaos seemed to reign the camp. She could see torches moving about, and hear men’s voices, shouting and confused, and at the same time, the sound of some other horses, loud and shrill, full of some sort of fear and terror. Athwen’s hands, held firmly about the horse’s head trembled and her throat felt dry.

The fear of the slavers’ horses could be sensed by the five horses and pony here. Athwen felt the movement more than she saw it. Some of the horses merely stood in rigid silence, their heads held high and their ears forward. But the others pranced and walked about as far as their picket lines would allow. Athwen’s heart beat strong as she looked from one dark shape to the next. If they got very frightened and attempt to bolt, they would most certainly be able to do so. She turned her attention to the horse at hand. Her small palms ran swiftly over his face and head, calming and relaxing him as she coaxed him to lower his head until his neck ran level with his body. Then she quickly left him and went to the next, more frantic horse.

As she worked on this one, she knew she could not spend this much attention to each horse – not if the tension and excitement got any more exciting or tense. Her mind raced as she spoke gently and soothed this horse to quietness, and she finally thought of the store of oats. Only to be used on special occasions for the horses, they were. Now was certainly one of those times, she thought. She ran from her last patient to one of the bags and picked it up. Quickly, she ran with it towards the horses. Their fear was slowly calming, but as she came near and offered them handfuls of the oats, their attention shifted to her.

In a short matter of time, they were busy sniffing and nuzzling the ground to the get the last of the oats. Athwen watched them with anxious eyes, hoping that nothing more would happen to startle them, at least until she had someone to help her. . .