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OOC - Author's Note:
This entry recounts a live RP session which revolved around the IC introduction of new player characters to the Company of the East Road - open to all. It is part of a chronicle aimed to be weekly called "Signs Along the Road". If you would like to join the Company and use this RP hook to do so, please reach out to Naridalis.
This session was held on 6th July 2025 | A quicklink to the previous session can be found here. | Signs Along the Road will go on a summer hiatus for now. Returning in a week or two's time. Hope to see you along with us.
Additionally: This piece was shaped with a little help from AI. It provided assistance on things like the structuring, some names, shortening some verbose language/ideas as I'd written, and gave me the odd turn of phrase here and there. The heart and shape of the story are my own, but I realise it is important to be transparent about my use of AI support in producing it ultimately.
There had been no time to call for help. No time to scramble for a blade.
But Naridalis had found that she didn’t need to.
For a sharp crack had rung out beside her, flat and sudden.
A stone, flung from Bratikus' sling, had whistled through the fog and had struck her assailant clean in the temple. The smuggler’s eyes widened in confusion, his body seizing as though frozen. Then he dropped, folding to the earth without another sound.
Nari coughed, pain flashing in her ribs. She turned her head slightly and saw Brat through the reeds, still low, still watching, her arm already winding back for another throw. The hobbit's face was pale but steady, breath puffing in the chill air. She did not wait for thanks. She had done what needed doing.
Nari rolled onto her side with a wince and pulled herself slowly to one knee. Mud clung to her gloves and sleeves. The smuggler’s body lay near her feet. She reached for her fallen bow and dagger and steadied herself.
The earlier fight at the bridge had left her shaken; the blow from Ironhand still throbbed with every motion; now made ever worse by the sting of the cudgel hit she’d only just received. But she was alive… and there’s no greater source of vigour to the senses than realising that you’re still alive…
The scene before her was chaos. Lantern-light spilled in flickers across shifting shapes.
At the nearby dock, crates were being hastily moved to make cover. Men shouted. More were coming on the approaching ferry.
Nari’ thoughts drifted, briefly, frantically: ‘Where’s Beth?’
She had not seen her since the earlier advance. Not among the reeds. Not at the dock’s edge. There’d been no whistle of her arrow, no glimpse of her shape in the mist. Nari turned her head, scanning quickly, but the shadows yielded nothing.
Had she fallen? Was she held back by wounds or worse?
The thought twisted in her chest, more bitter than the wound itself. She didn’t take Bethrelfin as one to vanish quietly. If she were able, she would be here already.
But she was not.
And so, Nari forced her focus forward once more. The dock could not be held alone.
Nearby, Bratikus crept through the tall grass, her club in hand, towards Nari. She was crouched but ready, her club now drawn.
“Nari, are you okay?,” she asked, not looking at her directly; it wasn’t yet safe to do so.
Naridalis pushed up, slow and ragged, the pain sharp behind every movement. But she stood. She stood because the fight wasn’t over.… there was no walking away from this. Not yet.
“We have to stop that ferry”, she said to Brat; the hobbit nodding in turn.
Together, the two of them moved from the reeds toward the dock, slipping from the shadows to try and forestall the next wave.
The Brandywine lapped at the posts below.
The ferry had almost made it to land.
And through the mists, Nari could begin to make out many more shapes aboard… it seemed the true battle had yet to even begin.
Not far from the dock, up the rise of the bank where the reeds thinned into rough grass, Sulgalion and Garibald were still in combat. Several brigands now stood between them and the dock. Armed with crude swords and with axes drawn, the brigands had charged haphazardly. They were far from dissuaded at the sight of their fallen fellows, making them dangerous.
Sul stood tall, his sword glinting in the moonlight. He watched as the first of the smuggler-brigands broke into a run, axe swinging in both hands, breath coming in grunts. The elf’s eyes narrowed. He made no sound, only adjusted his stance, pivoting his lead foot just slightly as the man bore down on him.
The brigand raised his weapon overhead. Sul’s sword moved like a flash of starlight.
He shifted his weight and twisted in an elegant manner, then drove forward the point of his sword with a cool precision; aimed directly at the man’s chest. The timing was perfect. The steel pierced cloth and flesh with a sharp crack, driving the breath from the man’s lungs. The brigand choked, eyes wide, stumbling as Sul stepped in and pulled the blade free. Another quick strike followed, an arcing slash across the side that dropped the man to his knees before he collapsed into the grass. The others didn’t wait.
A second smuggler charged from the side, this one leaner, faster, with a dagger in each hand and a sharp grin stretched across his face. Gari stepped in to meet him, shield raised, spear at the ready. But the smuggler was quicker than expected.
He darted low, slashing at Gari’s leg. The hobbit yelped, twisting his shield downward just in time to deflect the blow, but the force of it sent him reeling. He stumbled back, lost his footing, and fell hard on the muddy slope. His spear tumbled out of reach, rolling down into the grass.
The smuggler pressed in fast, sensing advantage. But Sul was already moving. He wasn’t about to let the man press his newfound advantage so easily.
He turned sharply from his fallen foe, his blade drawn back, and in a single fluid motion he slashed across the smuggler’s path. The brigand halted mid-step, retreating from the sudden silver arc of the sword in the moonlight.
Sul didn’t follow immediately. Instead, he placed himself between Gari and the threat, blade held high in silent warning.
Gari groaned, pushing himself upright, one hand clutching his side where the blow had landed. His shield was scratched, but intact. He found his spear, rolled to grab it, and rose again with a grunt.
“I’m still in this Sul,” he muttered, blood on his lip, eyes sharp beneath his brow. Sul glanced at Gari, nodding once. “Good,” was all he said, but there was a smile on his face.
At the water’s edge, the river whispered around the pilings. Naridalis crouched beside a stack of old crates, one hand pressed to her ribs, the other gripping her bow. Her breath still came in short, ragged pulls, but the sting of the cudgel blow was receding. She glanced to her side. Bratikus crouched nearby, clutching her club in one hand and a fresh stone in the other. Her arm was cut, but her expression said ‘ready’.
Nari turned her eyes toward the dock…. a burly smuggler now stood there. He must have seen them approach, but he didn’t call out. He stands ready; broad-shouldered, balding, arms like tree limbs. A cutlass hangs at his belt, but in his hands he wields a thick iron hook, notched and worn. His eyes lock on Nari first, then he sees Brat.
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The ferry was nearly there now. Drawn in by momentum, it coasted the final stretch toward the Buckland shore; those aboard were actually pulling the rope to arrive faster! Its lantern swung like a dying star, casting soft ripples of gold across the fog, not quite managing to illuminate those aboard.
Brat crept forward a pace and whispered under her breath, “There’s more of them. Can you see?” Nari nodded grimly. They’d have to act…. The two broke cover, boots striking the dock in tandem, weapons drawn. They ran straight for the hook-handed brute.
He saw them coming.
He met them halfway with surprising speed for a man of his bulk, swinging the hook in a wide arc. Nari ducked the first swipe, but Brat was forced back, her club nearly knocked from her hand. The man snarled and pressed his advantage, slamming the hook downward toward Nari with brutal force.
She twisted aside, but not fast enough. The blunt side of the iron caught her across the shoulder, sending her stumbling to the side with a sharp cry. Brat responded at once, darting low and slamming her club against the man's hip. He grunted, staggered, but didn’t fall.
He advanced again.
Too close. Too strong.
Nari reached for her other dagger, but her arm refused to lift properly. The bruising from the cudgel earlier left her chest tight and her limbs sluggish.
…. but it was too late. The ferry had now finally reached the dock. The water around it gave a slow, heavy slap against the pilings as five men stepped forward from its bow; all had crossbows in hand.
They moved in practiced rhythm, fanning out at the vessel’s lip, heels to the edge, bolts already loaded. Behind them, silhouettes loomed, others preparing to follow, too numerous to count against the still swirling mists.
They raised their weapons. A breath passed. A creak of wood. Then came the volley.
Five bolts screamed from the ferry, straight at the smuggler, Nari and Brat.
At the top of the slope, the clash of steel still rang against the dark. Sul stood over the last of the fallen brigands, his sword bloodied, breath heavy but measured. Gar reclaimed his fallen spear. His shield arm ached, and his lip was split, but the worst of the assault had been repelled, or so he thought.
The bodies of their attackers lay sprawled about them, some groaning, others still. But it was clear, none remained standing.
Sul wiped his blade on the edge of his coat, then sheathed it with a clean motion. “That’s the last of them,” he said, gaze dropping toward the dock.
Gar was already moving, half-running, half-limping as he descended through the grass.
From below came a sharp, rhythmic sound, boots striking boards, the creak of timber, and the unmistakable sound of crossbows being drawn.
Gar reached the bend in the slope where the treeline gave way to the dock, and he saw them.
Five of them, lined at the front of the ferry.
All armed. All aiming.
And below, directly in their path, stood Naridalis and Bratikus.
A volley of bolts was released with terrifying speed. One slammed into a crate just behind Nari, splinters flying past her cheek. Another punched through the dock’s planks between Brat’s boots. But not all miss.
A bolt catches Nari in the side, just below the shoulder. The impact sends her staggering, breath ripped from her lungs. The pain is white-hot, sudden and deep. She drops to one knee, blood seeping fast from her side. Brat cries out as a second bolt grazes her arm, tearing through cloth and leaving a sharp line of blood. She stumbles back behind a barrel, breathing hard, eyes wide.
The smuggler is amazed he’s not been hit himself! He sees his chance and steps forward again. By the ferry, the crossbowmen start to reload with practiced speed. More shadows stir behind them. The dock now belongs to them.
Garibald’s heart kicked into motion. “No!” he breathed, and without thinking, he grabbed the only thing he could.
A javelin.
With a sharp tug from his back brace, he freed it, raised it, and in as swift a motion as all that, he hurled it down the hill with all his strength.
The javelin cut the air with a whistling arc, passing the edge of the dock just as the crossbows fired. It struck the smuggler with the silver hook, who had stood between the ferry and the women, with brutal force.
The man didn’t cry out. He simply folded backwards as the impact took him clean off his feet. He crashed sideways into the edge of the dock, directly into the crossbowmen as they readied to fire again.
The second volley was broken. Bolts clattering loose. Cries ringing out as limbs tangle and weapons scatter. One even topples into the river. For one breathless moment, the dock belongs to the fellowship again.
Nari blinked rapidly, struggling to keep consciousness. Her whole arm throbbed and hung limp. Blood soaked the collar of her tunic. She could barely concentrate to look for Brat, when the sound of boots struck the dock behind them, fast and firm.
A shape dropped beside her, pulling her behind a crate. It was Garibald.
“You’re not dying here, Nari!” he snapped, already grabbing her good arm. She grunted in pain but nodded, too dazed to speak.
Another pair of feet landed at Brat’s side. Sul’s cloak swept as he dropped low, one hand seizing the hobbit’s shoulder, and pulling her behind cover also.
“Up,” he said, low but firm.
Brat wheezed, blinking against the pain. “my arm,” she grunted.
The group took a breath behind the shallow shelter of broken boards and stacked contraband. The air was thick with dust, blood, and fog. Brat slumped beside Nari, her teeth clenched, already seeking to administer a bandage to her wound.
Sul crouched beside them, face taut with urgency. “You still breathing?”
Nari coughed and gave a shaky nod, clutching her shoulder. “For now,” she managed.
Gari leaned out briefly, scanning the dock, as the sound of a new challenge rang out.
Something heavy stepped forward.
The ground beneath them trembled.
Nari’s eyes widened. “What now?”
The dock shuddered.
Hooves rang out, once, then twice, metal against wood.
A massive black horse stepped through the mist onto the ferry’s forward ramp. Its nostrils flared, steam rising from its mouth, and it gave a single high-pitched snort as if in answer to the hush that had fallen over the landing.
Upon its back sat a tall figure clad in dark leather and iron. His helm was ridged with steel. A crimson scarf wrapped his lower face. A long, curved blade was strapped to his side. One gauntlet rested loosely on the reins, the other on the pommel of the sword.
The real fight had arrived.
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Sulgalion's expression soured at the sight of the enemy. He took a deep breath and looked towards this Captain of bandits…. and cried out: "I see you are not fond of walking. Such a shame, it would've helped you with that ugly hanging gut of yours".
The horse stamped the dock, steam curling from its nostrils. The brigand-captain’s helm tilted slightly as Sul’s words rang out across the mist. A few crossbowmen still scrambling to their feet glanced at one another, stunned. The captain’s grip tightened on the reins, but he did not charge. Not yet.
The mist shifted. Behind the crossbowmen, five more brigands stepped forward. They were dressed in heavier armour, and their blades drawn. They moved with purpose, forming a new line at the ferry’s edge. The dock was now firmly back in their hands.
Brat looked to Gari and muttered "If we survive this, I will have an amazing story to tell."
The Captain hesitated no more. He gave a sharp pull on the reins, and the horse surged forward - straight toward the crates that the wounded fellowship huddled behind.
“Down!” Sul barked. The group barely had time to react.
The black beast slammed forward with terrifying speed, the captain’s sword gleaming at his side. The dock shuddered beneath the weight of the charge. Hooves struck splintering wood. Crates were smashed aside like kindling.
Sul rose too late to stop it. The horse barrelled into him with a sickening crunch, the captain’s shoulder crashing into the elf’s side. Sul was hurled backward with a shout, landing hard on the dock beside Nari, who was already too slow to move out of the way.
The horse clipped her too, its flank slamming into her already-injured side and sending her tumbling to the boards. The breath left her body in one burst, and she rolled until stopped by the base of a broken crate.
Brat tried to rise and dodge but was knocked aside as one of the crushed boxes split open beside her, showering her in broken wood and twisted scraps of metal. Her club flew from her hand.
Gari barely had time to react. For he was caught at the end of the charge and flung into the dock rail, his shoulder striking with a dull thud. He groaned and dropped to one knee, stunned. The horse reared over him, and hooves come slamming down upon his shield. It splinters into countless pieces, though taking much of the blow, his arm is severely hurt. A further glancing blow from the captain’s sword catches Gari across the brow. He falls back with a cry and his spear is thrown from his hand.
The charge had broken them all.
All four lay scattered, groaning or clutching wounds, breathless and dazed. For a heartbeat, all was still except the creak of the dock and the low snort of the horse.
Then the brigand-captain wheeled the beast around. His helm glinted, his cloak trailing behind him. He turned to face them again, preparing to strike once more.
He raised his sword.
His horse reared.
And then…
A streak of calico.
A flicker of fur and claws.
Dumpling appeared!
The cat flew through the air from the far side of the crates, having launched from some impossible leap, claws extended. She landed squarely on the captain’s chest with a hiss. Her claws found purchase along the man’s face and helm-straps. He shouted, staggered in the saddle, flailing wildly.
The horse bucked.
“Clever girl,” the captain muttered just before he managed to seize the cat and hurl her to the side. Dumpling hit the ground and tumbled, but she was already scrambling back into the shadows, unharmed.
In the struggle, the captain’s helm had come loose, ripped free by Dumpling’s claws. He sat exposed now, blood along one cheek, his eyes wide with fury.
That was the opening.
Bethrelfin’s arrow came like a whisper of wind.
She had risen from behind the far crates, bow raised, barely able to stand. Her hair was matted with blood, but her hand was steady.
The arrow struck him clean between the eyes.
The captain froze.
The sword dropped from his hand.
He slumped in the saddle and then fell, backward and heavy, onto the dock. The warhorse screamed and bolted, galloping up off down the bank of the river into the night.
A strange stillness followed, as if everyone had forgotten to breathe.
But danger had not passed.
From the right side, the armoured brigands stepped forward. The steel of their blades caught the torchlight. Sul arose, badly hurt but not willing to concede the fight. There was blood on his coat, it was impossible to tell whether it was his or earlier Brigands. His sword was still in his hand though and he turned his gaze to them and squared his shoulders for a charge. He gave no cry, no threat, just motion. Swift and smooth, like a drawn arrow loosed into wind.
Seeing this, the brigands fell back behind the crossbow line. Sul’s determined charge shaking them.
At the same time, Garibald had also stirred.
He leapt over the brigand-captain's body with renewed energy. The hobbit ran forward, and in fluid motion, unstuck the javelin he had earlier lodged in the chest of the iron-hooked smuggler. His face was scraped and smeared with blood. But his eyes were clear.
He ran toward the line of crossbowmen. The four of them, who had survived the earlier chaos, were now raising their bows again, their allies line up behind them. Shocked at the loss of their Captain, they were regaining formation, their weapons to be trained on the fellowship one… last… time.
“I won’t let them,” Gari cried as he raced and rolled between bodies and crates alike to get there as quickly as he could…. It was all he could do for his wounded friends, to place himself in the path of their demise.
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He raised his javelin like a barrier, a denial; his arm extended, his body tense. Blocking the sightline to the others, even for a moment. A moment is all it would need….
A futile effort, but perhaps the most heroic gesture Nari had ever witnessed a Hobbit perform.
She blinked, seeing him there…. past Brat, past Sul… just standing alone against four crossbows and five swordsman… and she tried to call his name, but she couldn’t… she wanted to close her eyes; not to look, not to witness…
But she wasn’t going to do that.
She watched as he stood between her and death.
Between all of them, and the ferry’s wrath.
Time seemed to stop.
Pain filled her chest… but so did something else.
Something fierce.
And that’s when they all heard it.
A sound, from behind them, growing.
Not of steel, but of music…
A strange and piercing note on the air…
The playing of Bagpipes.
The music came from the hilltop behind them, up toward the hedgerows where the path met with Buckland.
Then there were cries heard. They began as a single wail, lonely and sharp, and then this was joined by a second, a third, and the steady beat of many feet.
The brigands faltered.
The crossbowmen glanced to the hill. Their hands now trembling.
The light of dawn had broken, and the fog parted at the crest of the hill to show dozens of figures; hobbits.
They came in a ragged line, not warriors by trade, but every one of them armed: pitchforks, cudgels, torches, scythes. Some bore hunting bows, others only the tools of field and forge.
At their front was a stern-looking Bounder captain with a green sash across his shoulder, Captain Eadric. But he was not leading them. He was simply the one keeping up.
The hobbits of Buckland had come.
Not just the Bounders. Not just the Shirriffs. The people of Buckland.
Men and women, elders and youths, some with shields cobbled from barn doors, others with pans on their heads, all with something in hand and fire in their eyes.
A voice rose from the hill: “We stand with the Company!”
The cheer that followed could have shattered the river’s fog. It rolled down the slope like a great thunder.
Nari blinked back tears she hadn’t realised were there. She somehow managed to sit upright. Blood ran down her shoulder, and her remaining arm threatened to give way, but she stayed upright.
“We’re not alone,” she whispered.
The brigands knew it too. They all turned and ran, crashing back onto the ferry in a panic.
One shouted, “Cut the line! Get it off the dock!”
But they were too slow.
The last man on the rope slipped, and the ferry lurched away. Its mooring line tangled, snapped, and trailed in the current. The vessel spun sideways, knocking crates and men into the river. One brigand screamed as he leapt into the Brandywine rather than face the hobbit host.
In less than a minute, the ferry was adrift.
Then it was gone, carried away by the ever quickening current.
Silence took the dock again.
And then the hobbits began to cheer.
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The battle was done.
Not won with strategy. Not by blade or bolt, or even luck. But by resolve.
By a fellowship that would not yield, and a people who refused to remain silent any more.
The ferry vanished into the morning fog. No pursuit was given. None was needed.
On the dock, the fellowship remained, bloodied and broken but alive.
Nari leaned against a half-toppled crate, her shoulder bandaged loosely with cloth from Brat’s satchel. Her vision still swam. Her breath came light and quick. But the worst had passed. She let the ache sit without fighting it. There would be time for healing. Later.
Gari slumped beside her, wiping his brow with a grimy sleeve. His chest rose and fell heavily. A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked up at the hobbits now filtering down from the hill, some still gripping pitchforks and broken tools with white knuckles.
“Didn’t think I’d live to see Buckland charge a battlefield,” he muttered.
Beth approached at a slow, uneven pace, her hand pressed tightly to her ribs. Her tunic was torn, and her hair was streaked with both blood and mud. Yet there was no mistaking the steel in her eyes.
She said nothing at first, only gave a slow nod to Nari, then to Sul and Gari in turn. When she looked to Brat, the hobbit grinned wide and offered a half-salute.
Beth let out a short laugh, then crouched stiffly beside the others.
“I didn’t miss the end, I hope.”
“You ended it,” Nari said gently, her voice carrying more than gratitude. “Right when it counted.”
Beth nodded once, a flicker of something warmer in her expression. “Good.”
Then she leaned back against the crate, exhaling deeply. “Next time,” she muttered, “someone else gets to do the dramatic shot.”
Sul chuckled but hid a smile… He stood a short way off, his coat torn and spotted with blood. He seemed to mourn that fact deeply. He leaned on the railing, wiping his sword before sliding it home into the scabbard at his hip. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it into place with surprising care given the state of things. Then he turned, his expression unreadable as he looked back toward Nari.
“So,” he said. “This is what your Company is doing along the Great Eastern Road?”
Nari lifted her eyes to meet his, a faint smile just visible beneath the dirt and pain. “Yes,” she said. “This is what the Company does… when it does its best work. It has a lot to rebuild in that regard. But yes.”
He nodded, slow and thoughtful.
Brat, nearby, let out a delighted wheeze of laughter. “Are the Company taking on new members? If Sulgalion wants to join, I’d like to join too.” She cast a glance toward Gari and turned bright pink.
Nari let the smile reach her eyes. “You’re in, Brat. We’ll talk over the code of conduct another time, over a ‘pint’ as the hobbits like it. As for Sul…”
She looked back at him. “I think he prefers to walk alongside, when it suits him.”
Her voice softened. “.. and I’m glad it suited him this time.”
Sul raised a brow, and his lips curled into something like a genuine smile.
“Until the open waters call me forth,” he said, “I shall see what there is to see upon the Road. Might also make a journey to Rivendell. It has been too long.”
Nari inclined her head. “Then walk with us while the road is shared.”
Brat perked up. “I didn’t do much,” she said, sheepish now that the danger had passed. “But I can tell there’ll be stories in working with the Company. And that is what I’m after.”
Nari shook her head. “You saved my life, Brat. More than once tonight.”
The hobbit flushed red again and busied herself with folding another bandage.
Beth leaned wearily on her bow, stroking Dumpling who seemed happy.
Around them, the hobbits of Buckland had begun to work, checking the wounded, righting overturned crates, helping haul bodies from the dock. Not all were enemies. There was talk of who would write the letter to Michel Delving. Of whether the Bounders would be sending word to the Thain.
Sulgalion rubbed his chin and said aloud: "I do wonder if any of these fine hobbits will have us for breakfast..."
Voices rose all around them at the mention… bright and with cheer. Others joined in a rough song, clumsy and off-key, but heartfelt. A few simply laughed, the kind of laughter that comes only when fear has passed. A balm to all.
Naridalis remained seated for a long moment, her eyes fixed downriver.
The ferry was lost to the water now. Whatever the Brigands were trying to smuggle had gone along with it, or into the Brandywine… though perhaps there would be some clues about the dock. Still, she didn’t look for them just yet.
Instead, she turned her gaze upriver. Past the dock. Past the ruined barricades. Past the bloodstains and broken timber. Back towards the path, as it would wind through Buckland and beyond to eventually rejoin with the Great East Road.
She stood with effort, favouring her injured side, and rested her hand on Gari’s shoulder for support. Turning to them all she said softly, “Let’s go see what comes next”.
Sulgalion gave a half-smile, Garibald offered a nod, and Bethrelfin mimed a yes to Dumpling before catching sight of her husband who had just arrived. As the two embraced, Bratikus, wide-eyed, held up a hand already ready to scribble the first line of her next tale….
They would all walk again – together.
Bound not just by a shared sense of protecting free folk, but by fellowship.
By the fire shared, and stories told.
For those who can see…
Signs Along the Road.
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