The Escape

It had been yet another hard day's work on the farm. Now it was the middle of the night and Eolair lay in bed beside his wife, Mariah, getting some well-earned rest. His two sons lay in a bed closeby, just one and three years old. They would make good farmers when they were older. Eolair turned over, disturbed by some sound, but did not awaken as it was not a sound he associated with his cattle and therefore couldn't be worth waking for. Suddenly, the door to the house crashed in and a stream of orcs flooded inside, wielding swords, spears and torches. They grabbed Eolair, Mariah and the two boys, dragging them outside and stabbing them with their weapons. There were screams on the night air and torchlight revealed a gruesome scene. Orcs had overrun the farm and were busy slaughtering the inhabitants and the cattle, burning the fields and the farmbuildings. They dragged Eolair, Mariah and the two boys and stabbed them yet again, throwing them on the ground beside the barn. Eolair tried to raise himself up and got another stabwound and a punch in the face from an orc for his trouble. He lay still for a while, then looked at his wife and two boys. They were dead, their faces pale in the torchlight. Eolair felt a great grief well up inside him, but there was no time to grieve, more bodies were being dragged towards him, so he lay still as death. Cattle and farmhand carcasses were dragged beside the barn and the pile of bodies grew. Now and then, an orc would take one and throw it into a burning building, letting it cook for a time, then dragging it out with a spear. Then a group of orcs would descend on the roasted meat, grunting and chuckling as they chewed the halfcooked flesh of Eolair's family, friends and cattle. Hours passed and the revelling orcs grew quieter, their hunger stilled. The buildings still burned merrily in the darkness, throwing a cheerful glow on the terrible sight. One by one, the orcs fell asleep, one or two still wakeful but not very alert when they had so many companions around. There must have been over fifty of them. Who would dare attack such a large force? Eolair lay quiet until he guessed it was nearly time for the sun to rise. He then carefully crawled his way out of the pile of bodies, stopping still often, is heart beating like a wardrum in his chest. After what seemed an age, he managed to crawl his way to a clump of bushes in a nearby field, away from the orcs and burning buildings. He tore strips from his clothing, binding the worst of his wounds. Tired to death after his ordeal and having lost a lot of blood, he fainted. After a few hours he came to, a burning thirst plaguing him. Crawling on hands and knees for hours, unable to find a pool nearby, he finally came to the river near Ost Lagoros. He nearly wept there, remembering happier times on these banks of picnics with his family. He drank his fill and lay still, exhausted. Footsteps approached. Eolair didn't have the strength to drag himself upright and so lay still beside the water, fearfully watching the figure approaching. It was a ranger. Eolair nearly wept again, thankful that it wasn't an orc. The ranger cared for Eolair for a few weeks, making camp right there on the riverbank and tending to his wounds. After a few weeks, Eolair was well enough to travel. The ranger asked him what he would do now. Eolair had no idea. All he had known his whole life had been obliterated in one night. The ranger nodded and suggested he leave the Kingsfell. It had become too dangerous. It was decided that the ranger would accompany Eolair to Minas Vrun. There, he left Eolair in the care of the people there, who were also refugees from the orcs. After only a few days and with only the clothes on his back, he set out for Trestlebridge, hoping to find work. After travelling for days, a journey made longer by his incompletely healed wounds, he finally arrived in Trestlebridge, only to find that had been ravaged by orcs. His hopes were dashed. After asking around for a few days, he got told there were jobs in Bree and so made a long, slow journey on foot there. Once arrived in Bree, he asked around for work unsuccessfully, including the Prancing Pony. Mr. Butterbur took pity on him, allowing him to sit on the steps outside the front door to beg, as long as he did not bother people inside the inn.