Paths of Eriador Free RP

The fair valley of Rivendell, upon whose house the stars of heaven most brightly shone.
New Soul
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"Eriador was of old the name of all the lands between the Misty Mountains and the Blue;
in the South it was bounded by the Greyflood and the Glanduin that flows into it above Tharbad.
At its greatest Arnor included all Eriador, except the regions beyond the Lune,
and the lands east of Greyflood
and Loudwater, in which lay Rivendell and Hollin. Beyond the Lune was
Elvish country, green and quiet, where
no Men went; but Dwarves dwelt, and still dwell, in the east side of the
Blue Mountains, especially in those parts
south of the Gulf of Lune, where they have mines that are still in use.
For this reason they were accustomed to
pass east along the Great Road, as they had done for long years
before we came to the Shire. At the Grey Havens
dwelt Cirdan the Shipwright, and some say he dwells there still,
until the Last Ship sets sail into the West."

- Narrator, from The Lord of the Rings: Appendix A - Eriador, Arnor, and the Heirs of Isildur


Long and lonely are the leagues between Mithlond and Bree. Desolate
and dangerous is the vast distance between the Weather Hills and Imladris.
The people are few but they make a living. The Rangers of the North guard
the scattered villages, quiet fields, and remote roadways, protecting
innocents and vagabonds from enemies of all kinds, whether it be prowling
beasts or ruffians with black hearts and Orcs and Trolls.
Beware the East-West Road, travellers; sometimes it's the path most travelled you
should fear the most rather than the suprises which await you in the shadows....


Rules:
This is a Free RP, a thread where you may roam where you wish
within Eriador and without GM direction.
All are welcome. Ranger, wanderer, robber, thing of evil
the choice is yours but Orcs usually aren't found past the Weather Hills
I must say.
The year is TA 3014 but "Flashback RP'ing", writing in the past, is welcome.
You may write alone and mark your post(s) as private or you may team up with a member.
The Rivendell Activities OOC can be used for out of character posts and plotting.
Tharmáras RPs Aragorn in this thread.

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Last edited by Eriol on Thu Mar 18, 2021 9:08 am, edited 2 times in total.

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"Sweet Master Doctor, learned Master Doctor, who ever heard of a witch that really died? You can always get them back."
C.S. Lewis, Prince Caspian

The Chronicles of Jadis
TA 3014, After the Fall of the Ice Queen's Angmar
The Trollshaws


The land here was wild. It was ancient. It was alive. And it was wicked.

Jadis Snowsword, formerly Her Imperial Majesty, Queen of Ice and Magnate of the Angmar Army, felt welcomed.

She wandered aimlessly between the hills, occasionally drawing one of her blades and impaling an unfortunate beech tree. Her feet were unstable, her head even more so. From time to time her voice rang out, high and clear, in a manic laughter that sent flocks of crows cawing into the air. She stumbled on stones and grabbed madly at twisted roots, throwing sticks and rocks at the barren landscape in frenzies of fury.

She would have roused every creature, good or evil, within miles; she would have died a hundred horrible deaths; but as she was clearly the most dangerous creature in the area, they let her be.

From time to time, and this was the worst of all, she would sing.

Jadis did not have a voice for singing. It was meant to command armies, or whisper spells in the darkest of nights, or tempt the unwary into honeyed traps. Yet she sang, and even the hills cowered before her madness, and shaped sudden folds in the ground to trip her feet.

"Dead be man, and beast, and hound,
Dead be tree upon the ground.
Dead be land and cold be stone
Dead be grass and rotting bone.
"

She climbed one of the hills, irresistibly drawn to the crooked ruins of a castle that once crowned its top. Halfway to the peak she stopped, shaking her head as though she could not remember where she was and why. Then she let out a screech of shrieking laughter or tortured agony, and fell back, rolling down between the high weeds, and snakes that accidentally found themselves in her path slithered away as quickly as they could.

"Dead be elves,
Dead be dwarves,
Dead be caves,
Dead be wolves.
"

Her once-majestic clothes were shredded; her crown was shattered. At the foot of the hill she lay on her back, breathing heavily, her dark stormy eyes lost in the clouds. She smiled thinly, dangerously, and said in a strange singsong voice, "High they built you, deep they delved you. Where be they now, man and king and warlord? All dead, all rotten. Away lie their corpses, and their ghastly spirits roam the hills." Suddenly she sprang up on all four, once-fair hair full of twigs and grass like a wild animal. "Will you not haunt me, ghosts? Will you not taunt me, wraiths?" She paused, as if allowing the empty lands about her time to consider their answer. Cocking her head with a slight frown, as if they surprised her by making no reply to her challenge, she called, "I wait for you still! I, who was Queen! I, who was - " she hesitated, unsure, and completed the sentence instead with a string of insults in various tongues, from Westron to Black Speech to the languages of a cold and desolate wasteland now forgotten by most mortal men.

Then she got to her feet, moving unsteadily, and continued her song - which was by now utterly tuneless and very nearly rhyme-less.

"Cold land, realm of ice,
Stolen, by Western spies.
Tower falls, arrows fly,
Ashes tumble from the sky.
"

She froze suddenly, lifting her hands in vague movements before her eyes. "Yes," she said, "not dead. I'm not. Not yet. They tried, oh, yes they did. There was blood. There were ashes: I remember, yes, they fell like rain. Ice and snow. Ashes. Oh, yes. Snow." Her eyes gained a faraway look. "I was a child, in a land far away in the North... where bones were tied to men's feet... where men walked on ice, yes, and the ice did not break..." Suddenly her voice sharpened. "It was the bones, you see," she said hoarsely, whispering urgently to no one. "You had to step on the bones..." With certain pride, she added, "but not me. No, not me. The ice had no hold of my feet..."

She tumbled through the Trallshaws, a broken image of a queen, as the sky darkened. The hills loomed foreboding and lonesome, and no stars could be seen from the shadows that gathered at their feet. There the former Ice Queen lurked, and waited, though she did not know what or whom she was waiting for...

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Esteldín, ranger outpost

Rain sheeted down on the outpost of Esteldín, a time-worn fortress of the North Downs accessible by one path each from east and west. No surface was exempted from the deluge: those that might have expected to remain dry in an ordinary soaking rain were defeated by the wind’s temperamental gusts. Every structure within the stone walls that had shutters saw them barred tightly against the weather, and only rarely did fireglow stand out through windows against the early darkness and fog that the weather had brought with it. Here and there figures moved about in the wet gloom, for work did not stop with the weather. The resident population of Esteldín was supplemented by an ever-varying number of rangers, and one such of these strode rapidly and in silence across the wide central yard of the fort, opening out from its gates. Heavily cloaked against the downpour, this ranger made for the encampment just within the walls, to the side of the inner gates: a semi-permanent series of structures, largely heavy oilcloth tents, designed to house the itinerant rangers that passed through at all hours. Outdoor firepits dotted the area, no more than smoking black hulks at the moment, and the interiors of the smaller tents, mere shelter for one or two, would no doubt be chilly and damp. But the larger tents were equipped with wood or coal burning stoves for both heat and cooking, and it was to one of these that the ranger made, and ducked easily inside the propped-open flap.

Grath Longfletch pushed back the hood of her cloak as she straightened within the tent and unclasped it in the same motion. It slithered off her shoulders, only to be caught in her hands as she turned back towards the tent door. Shaking the heavy cloak at the entrance, she divested it of its coating of standing water, before hanging it on a hook suspended from the rope that lined the roof seam, next to another that held her stout yew bow, and the quiver of long, green-fletched ash shafts that habitually accompanied it. Grath was wiry and compact, neither tall nor small, and moved with a vulpine looseness as she crossed the floor to drop herself into a rough chair beside stove. Her skin was tanned and roughened by wind and sun, but no amount of weathering could disguise the scars, two puckered ridges of tissue beginning in a point just beneath her right eye and one near the temple on the same side, running down the cheek, intersecting and departing again, and scoring her neck in a manner that would leave any onlooker to wonder how a human could survive such an injury, disappearing over the collarbone and down beneath her tunic. This garment was the color of wet moss, and lay beneath a sleeveless leather jerkin of a deep bay color, which fastened with a sweeping row of buttons up the left side. Both of these fell to just above her knees, with the tunic extending slightly beyond over the tough black trousers that tucked into tall brown boots. Her hair was long, but its mahogany curls were bound back, plaited into cord to keep it away from her face. The marks of long travel were all about her, and though sturdy, her every garment showed marks of wear, repair, and stain.

She was of a clan of Dúnedain who had long lived apart from the others, in a place called the Holt, named for the otters from which the clan had taken their totem. Under the leadership of Grath’s father, Lutra, the clan had flourished, growing stronger and repelling bandit and orc alike who strayed from mountain and moor, making safe their stretch of the Hoarwell west of the Hithaeglir. It was in this world which Grath had grown up, daughter of the chieftain; young, strong and warlike. With the others, she had guarded and patrolled the north and east of the Lone Lands, with one or another of the clan traveling two to three times a year to report to Osdolen. Occasionally new men had come, and occasionally some had gone, but Holt Lutra was primarily one large, highly extended family; jovial, bardaic, and free- happy in their remote independence. Until the occasion, three years ago now, when a mixed band of man and orc had descended upon her clan’s holdfast and dealt with them in wholesale slaughter. When she had awoke, grievously injured, and emerged from the pile of corpses that threatened to suffocate her, it was to discover that she was the only soul left breathing in Holt Lutra. Weeks passed in a haze before she was well enough to leave the death-ridden dwelling. When at last she had gained the strength, Grath had sealed the Holt and burned it, before starting her trek to Osdolen. There she had reported the events to Khallador, and begun her search for the one member of her family unaccounted for in the ruins: her younger brother, Inbar.

It was Inbar that sat across from her now, on the other side of the stove’s radiant heat. It had taken Grath nearly a year to find him, but find him she had, still captive at the hands of the same bandits that had razed Holt Lutra. The mission to retrieve him had left her with more scars to join the myriad tracing her body, but such was nothing compared to his return. Since that day they had travelled together as rangers, Grath instructing her brother in the ways of the Wild, and the sword. Inbar had learned the bow in his youth, when his sister was already ranging out, and such was his skill that their father had given him the surname Trueflight. But Inbar preferred scholarly pursuits, and it was not until they had been reunited that he had taken to serious martial training. As her clothing steamed in the heat of the stove, Grath drew a much-folded letter from with in her jerkin and flapped it against her knee, gesturing with it to her brother.

“Well, I’ve spread the word as much as I can in the day since this came. Now we’ll have to see who takes us up on it.” The letter had come by swift bird from Osdolen, in the hand and cryptic tones of Moriel, an elusive ranger Grath had met on more than one occasion. She had written of a mission from Khallador, relief to the village of Trestlebridge, and a hunt north to Deadman’s Dike to root out the orcs that harassed it. The orcs, Moriel had been clear to say, were marked with the red claw of Angmar. Grim lines creased Grath’s eyes at the thought, turning their grey-green to hard flint. It was not enough that orcs and men marauded, but now they must be organized by the intelligence of the Iron throne. “And we shall see if Moriel arrives to join us, but I doubt it. I do not think she would have written handing this venture over to me if she planned to be here.” Those who wished to join the company had been instructed to meet them here in this tent, and soon they would know what kind of force they would set out with. Grath’s gaze dropped to Inbar’s hands, busy with knife and small block of wood, which was transforming into an as-yet unidentifiable figurine. The corner of her lips quirked up slightly, tugging at the tight deadness of the scar.

“What’s that one going to be, then?”



GM Update:
Any rangers (previously established or otherwise) wishing to join this mission are welcome to enter the tent, whether you’re coming from within Esteldín, or traveling from Osdolen for the purpose!
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Rhys Eldshaw

The rain had already been pouring down when Eldshaw woke in his scrap-shelter, and there was no hope of keeping his things dry as he trekked the final miles of his journey. Still--it was good to have come at last to the ranger stronghold of Esteldin. The young ranger had not visited the community -- which consisted of a shifting cast of characters, whichever rangers had stopped for news and fresh supplies on their many journeys across Eriador -- since he was a child, with his mother and sister. All the intervening years Eldshaw had spent in Bree-land, a safer post perhaps than the North Downs (for the last few days, the distant shadow of the mountains of Angmar had loomed cold and dark to the north) but a far busier one as well, what with all those who passed along the West or Northern roads through Bree.
But now he was here. It had been a coincidence which drew him back northward--a chance journey to Osdolen, to visit with his ailing mother, and then a half-heard conversation, a desperate curiosity.
Trestlebridge needs aide, and Deadman's Dike clearing. Rhys had never been on a mission with more than a pair of other rangers, and even those were usually his mother and sister. But he had come here, at least, to see if they would have him.
And here was Esteldin. Even flooded by rain, even in ruins, even when the inhabitants lived in temporary dwellings scarcely sheltered by the worn stone walls, the ruins of the North-Kingdoms could not help but take Eldshaw's breath away. There was power here, once, he thought. And there will be again, with the blessing of the Valar.

Now, as he searched for the correct tent, his mother's words came back to him. Just walk in, introduce yourself. Not too proud, but no groveling either. You are Dunedain, same as they. And don't do thatthing where you make it sound like you're a terrible hunstman because you don't want to brag. Your woodcraft is as fine as any in Bree. Eldshaw took a deep breath, and adjusted the leather case which held his unstrung bow and kept it safe from the rain on his back.
He'd found the tent. Now was the moment.

He stepped inside, lowering his hood but not unclasping it -- no need to make it look like he was making himself at home when he'd never met these folk before. Inside, drying themselves by the fire, were a woman and a man (Grath and Inbar). The woman was hard and wiry, scarred and sunswept. She looked the part of a Ranger. The man, too, was muscular -- but there was something about his eyes, the sharp look of a scholar. Like those who occupied the library of Osdolen, that one was. Like Yssa, his sister. Eldshaw wished she was here--she was better with words than he, always had been.
." he said, finally. "I think--I've come for a mission? There was a call--I'm sorry for not being here earlier, but I heard of it in Osdolen only yesterday and had to march through much of the night to get here. I'm--My name is Rhys. Eldshaw, I mean. Rhys Eldshaw. And I'm not a half-bad huntsman, in the right circumstance. I mean--I'm an alright shot, and a better scout." He could hear his mother wincing, all the way from Osdolen. "Anyway, I'd like to help, if I may."
In the deeps of Time, amidst the Innumerable Stars

Forester of Lothlorien
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Rien / The Sparrow - On discovering the new Ranger mission.

The way it was pouring, Rien didn't think it would let up any time soon. This meant she was going to continue to huddle in the shadow of the ruins and sulk. Not that she would call it sulking. No. She had issues.

Issue one. Father was awful. After several delightful weeks in his company he had brought her to Estledin and left her there to go off on a mission. He had left only early that morning, while she had lain passed out from a night of arguing. He had refused to take her along, no matter how many times she had pleaded. Hadn't she proven herself so many times over the last few years. Of course she had, she thought bitterly. Only to the wrong person. That brought her to issue two.

Mireth.

Since Rien had been about fourteen, when she had been rescued by the she-elf, she had followed the elf around like a besotted puppy. From her she had picked up many worthy skills that had honed her into a good scout, a quick fighter and an all round good ranger. Or so she believed. She had also picked up long bits of interesting lore when the elf had been inclined to talk at length. The few times they had been at Osdolen to see if she could catch up with her father, Mireth had left them and wandered off on her own. Rien would not miss her overly much at those times because she was Dravedir exchanging news and showing off her skills. She loved the look of pride she would see in his hooded grey eyes, and believed she could never tire of it. The Mireth would return and Dravedir would leave on his next mission. Then one find day, after the elf's return, she learned that Mireth was leaving the wild. She was tired and she wanted to sail away to the West. Rien had been amazed, not fully understanding the impact of that news until Mireth began making plans for her departure -- to Rivendell. The young ranger had mooned about like a now lost puppy, and had tried every trick she knew of to convince the elf to stay. But Mireth would not. She had made up her mind. Rien folded further into a hunch as she thought indignantly that the elf had not even bothered to invite her to come with her. It did not matter if she would likely have refused. It was the principle of the thing.

So there she sat, a lonely, forlorn Ranger who, in fact, hated feeling lonely and forlorn. She stood up, and shook off stray drops of rain that had fallen upon her during gusts of wind. A little bulge in her vest pocket seemed to move and huddle into itself. Rien looked down and patted it gently. "There, there, Sugarplum. At least I still have you! Come on! The mourning is over and it's time to do something other than mope. What should we do?" She glanced around, her bright grey eyes peering keenly into the rain. Sugarplum nestled his little head out of her pocket to tasted the weather, but hurriedly dived right back in. Rien did not react to that little venture. Her gaze was focused on a young man who happened to be searching for something or someone. He was glancing about him, peering into tents, and squelching his way through the now muddy terrain.

Curious, and because she had nothing better to do, Rien pulled the hood of her deep green cloak over her dark head and made her way out into the downpour. She was halfway through reaching the young man when he suddenly disappeared into a closed, lit tent. The young woman hesitated. But only for a moment. Curiosity led her to find out whom this young man might have been looking for. And was there a chance she could be of any use?

She ran as quickly and lightly as the muddy ground would let her, and reached the tent in time for her sharp ears to pick up, "I'm an alright shot, and a better scout." Rien took in a sharp breath. A mission? Her mind started racing. Shot? Scout? This man was obviously signing up for something.

She hesitated for only a moment. Then she swept open the flap of the tent and ducked inside, where are warm light glowed in what she thought was solemn welcome. Her first glance took in a scarred woman with a young man busy with a piece of wood in his hands, and the man that she had followed in. She slipped off her damp hood to reveal a small, pale face with rather pointed features, as yet untouched or unhardened by the weather. Her dark hair was up in a messy pile over her head, and her grey eyes were now dark with excitement. "Suilaid! If there is any signing up to be done, I'm in too. I am good at anything you want me to be good at. I'm a quick learner!"

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Inbar Trueflight
Esteldín, ranger outpost

He had always liked the rain. He loved the smell of the earth as it opened up. He loved the relented drumbeat of droplets on the old thatched roof. He loved the way the rain felt as he pelted his skin. When he was younger, he would watch the summer skies of any sign of rain and would play in the rain for hours and hours. He would sneak his father’s, the Chieftain, quarterstaff, the one he had cut and carved himself under the tutelage of the elves (so his story went anyway), and practice. He would swing the whip thin piece of wood for hours and hours, battling the monsters of his imagination. He would return home, soaked the bone and half frozen to death. His mother admonished him, cuffed him motherly on the back of the head; his father would simply smile, shake his head, and ask for his quarterstaff back. His sister, encouraged him too, at least that’s how he chose to see it. She would tease him about his lack of form and his sloppy technique. They played in the rain together sometimes, teaming up to fight a bigger foe or to go on missions that she would devise for them. His youth had been one of happiness and joy, and it had always been connected to the rain. He learned the bow and arrow, practiced day and night, rain and shine, until only his sister was the superior marksman. It was during a torrential downpour that his father had given him his old bow and told him to try it out. Naturally, he ran into the storm and, channeling the ferocity and violence of the storm, used the bow to take down a bear that had been menacing many of the families nearby. It was raining when he set out for Lindon, set to follow scholarly pursuits, and while it had been raining, the sun shone clear through. His mother said it was a blessing from Súlimo himself, a sign that he was on the right path. It was rained the entire journey from the Holt to Lindon and everyone but him was in poor spirits by the end of trip. The rain hadn’t been for them though, it had been for him alone, and he reveled in the great spring downpour. Even now, he could remember the transparent sheets of water as they collided with the light and how the sky burst forth with color then. Since then, he had never seen a more beautiful sight. He learned under the watchful, stern eye of Finnbarr Galedeep, the free diver. He learned more about the sea in a month from the elf than from all the books written in the library there. He spent three years there, in that vibrantly melancholic city. Something happened then, something he could not explain. A feeling washed over him, a longing, a loneliness. The day he decided to return home, it rained. The rain this day though, was not from Súlimo. The rain came in the form of a tremendous hurricane. He managed out outride the storm until he made it home. There, where he thought he would be safe, the Holt, his home, the lands of Lutra, was where he learned to hate the rain. The very night he returned they were attacked. His father and mother killed and himself taken hostage. His sister, Grath, had been left alive, more by chance than design. He did not see her again for a year. She tracked the band of orcs and men that attacked their home until they were all dead. That had only been two years ago. Yet so much, so much had changed. He was a different man now. He still longed for the pursuits of knowledge and wisdom, but the call of the bow was stronger now, it’s trumpet blast rang through the hills and furrows of his mind. He learned the sword from Grath, but never, never in the rain. He hated the rain now.

Despite the downpour outside the tent, the night was quiet. Inbar whittle absentmindedly, carving off little bits and pieces of wood until the pile of shavings on the ground was larger than the piece of wood still left. He looked up as Grath entered the tent. She looked troubled. He did not like that look. When she got that look in her eye that meant they had a mission, given to her likely by the man that helped her save his life: Khallador. The mission was a not so subtly reminder to Inbar that they were Rangers now, well and true. A cold sensation rushed through him and he shivered despite the heat of the stove. He looked at his sister, studying the scars on her face and arms, all of them received in service to the Rangers or in his rescue. His own seemed to throb in response, a massive faded white line across his forehead from above his hairline that twisted and curled until it ended just above his right eye. The wound that been given to him that night three years ago when he learned to hate the rain. It had festered and never healed properly. His eyesight had suffered for it. His depth perception had nearly been ruined. Still, he had been given the name Trueflight and he wanted to earn back his name after exhaustive work with the bow, now supplemented by the sword, taught to him by Grath herself. He was no longer the transcendent bowman he once was, now he was merely excellent.

He opened his mouth, a slow, sad smile play that the tips of his eyes and mouth. A flash of lightning and a peel of thunder preceded his words, filling the tent with a rumbling energy. He sighed and put the knife and the figurine down.

“It was going to be an otter, a sea otter. Finnbarr once showed me a raft of them, nearly two hundred animals all told, all holding hands and holding against the current.” Again, he searched her eyes, there was something there. “How many do you think will show?” he asked, abruptly changing subject.

As if his words were a summoning, a man came through the tent flap and announced himself as Rhys Eldshaw. Inbar looked the man over and nodded. “Glad to have you with us Rhys. We can use all the help we can get.”

Before he finished another person came through the tent, a woman (Rien). He smiled wanly at her enthusiasm. “The more, the merrier,” he said with a nod. “My name is Inbar, this is my sister, Grath, she’ll be the one leading us. And who are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Círeth
Arriving at Esteldín

Círeth strode swiftly along the muddied path. Despite the slick tufts of grass beneath her boots, she moved nimbly and with purposeful haste, hoping she wasn't late. Her hood shielded her face and dark features from the worst of the lashing rain, but even still, water dripped down her cheeks and from the tip of her nose and chin. Every now and again, she blinked hard as droplets caught on her lashes and blurred her vision. She would be happy to find the shelter of the outpost soon.

The young woman was from Osdolen and had ranged just a few times with groups in its vicinity. Peldir, the old curmudgeon who'd once run the training grounds, was her uncle. As a girl she'd followed him around the grounds, watching at first and then joining in the training as she reached her teenage years. She was a hasty thing, leaping forward to strike at the slightest provocation or feint, not pausing to consider the larger context of the fight when she sparred. Peldir had told her more than once she had more heart than sense. The old ranger had hoped that, as her years lengthened, so too would her wisdom grow. Impatient with his chiding, Círeth had asked repeatedly, "And what would the rangers be without heart? Shadows flitting from tree to cave? Daring little and helping not at all?" At 20, she was young enough not to know the value of a long-term investment.

Still, Peldir saw strength in her and believed she could learn. And so he'd pushed her to venture out and join the group gathering at Esteldín. He had heard whispers of the mission and knew that exposure to the wider world, without his support (or nagging, as Círeth preferred to think of it) would do her some good. She was unlikely to learn any more lessons in patience from him without a bit of outside help and, perhaps, a bitter taste of reality. Círeth, for her part, had missed his intention completely in her eagerness to prove herself and had set forth brimming with confidence.

She approached Esteldín from the east. At last, she passed the walls of the outpost. A word to a stranger, cloaked as she was against the downpour, got her the information she needed to find the group. "Just beside the wall over there," he said before hurrying away. She called her thanks after him, but her voice was lost amid the steady pounding of rain on the rooftops. Círeth hastened to the tent he had indicated, throwing back her hood and shaking the rain from her face again as she entered its shelter. Heat pulsed like a heartbeat from a stove within, and only now did she notice the numbness that had crept into her fingers in the chill of the deluge. Several figures had already gathered.

"Are you the group gathering for the mission?" she asked breathlessly, by way of introduction.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Elven Enchanter
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Gaeron, joining the mission at Esteldín

It was a dull, wet day in Esteldín as Gaeron followed the path down to the tent. The rain whipped around him, and he pulled his cloak in closer to his body in the hope of keeping some part of him dry. It had been a hard journey from Osdolen, but hearing of the approaching danger was all the motivation he needed to head off to join this Ranger mission. While he usually wasn't one for group missions, the recent years and growing bravery of the orcs and other foul creatures made lone missions more and more dangerous. As he approached the tent, he heard voices inside. It sounded as if many members of the band were new to each other. "Good," he thought, "I won't be the only outsider." Not that such a thing bothered him, but if there was one thing he knew about group missions, it was always harder to be the lone outsider as they would not have the experience of working with the specific group. But if all, or nearly all, were new to each other, they would quickly have to learn how to work as a group, rather than one person learning how to fit in.

As he approached the tent, he saw a figure enter only a few steps ahead of him. Gaeron ducked under the tent flap and stepped quickly inside. He pulled his hood down, letting his ruddy curls loose. For all his efforts at keeping his head dry, he was still wet from head to toe.

"Am I in the right place for the mission?" he inquired, looking around at the group that had gathered. He knew no names, but perhaps one or two faces were familiar, but it was too dark in the firelight to tell at the moment. He stepped towards the fire and extended his cold and wet hands towards the welcoming heat of the flames.
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Artanis / Éomund / Brandor / Zarâm

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Rien / Sparrow - Making Room for More!

"I am Liririen. Rien to some. Sparrow to others," said Rien in response to Inbar's question. Her eyes were quickly adjusting to the dim light in the tent and she noted the wearied look in the eyes of the brother and sister. She had seen that look before on many an experienced Ranger. But she could make out, as well, that these Rangers were not that much older than she was, and she wondered at the days that had led up to the old look in their eyes. No doubt the scars had something to do with it.

She turned to consider the man [Rhys Eldshaw] whom she had come in after, and recognition flashed in her eyes. She had seen him a few times in Osdolen. But they had never really crossed paths before then. She was about to open her mouth to mention it when movement immediately outside the entrance of the tent caused Rien to shuffle hastily towards her left, and make room for a new comer. Here was another she recognised - Cireth. Rien could not help grinning. Again she was not someone she knew personally, but Rien had, on the rare occasions she had gone to the Osdolen training grounds, seen the other getting quite the earful. Rien could not help but be glad. She had been, for a brief moment, feeling just a tad-bit nervous and uncomfortable with the seated siblings looking so solemn and worn and heart-weary. But Rien always had a fountain of hope bubbling deep inside her that made her want to burst out singing in her tuneless voice, notwithstanding the moments of loneliness - which were not that many, she had to admit.

Rien found herself shifting further into the tent as yet another Ranger made his appearance. But she was forced to step back and make way for him as he came forward for the warmth of the fire. She could not help but wonder at their number. Six of them in all. What sort of mission was this going to be?
Last edited by Nen on Sun Aug 09, 2020 6:56 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Rhys Eldshaw
Meeting his Fellows


Eldshaw smiled at Inbar's kind words, then stepped to the side as a woman (Rien) swept into the tent. It was good--she looked as young as he was, or at least less weathered. Perhaps Rhys would not be made the foolish hanger-on of this mission by simple virtue of his relative inexperience with proper ranger operations. Although, on the other hand, you never could tell with Rangers. Sure, some of them were the road-wearied folk you saw passing through Bree-land, but others had spent their whole lives in Homely House, a place to which Eldshaw had traveled only once, and knew more of Elf-lore and Forest-lore and the Lore of Orcs and Dark Things than you would think, given their youth. You never could tell with Elf-magic.

"Suilad!" said the woman. "If there is any signing up to be done, I'm in too. I am good at anything you want me to be good at. I'm a quick learner." So yes, perhaps she was as young as Rhys. Though truly, that might not matter much. He had never thought himself much a learner at all, but rather a bumbling fool who happened to be better at peace in the woods than with a tutor.
Inbar and Grath. So those were the names -- and brother and sister, too. No doubt they would make a powerful team, especially with a leader as clearly well-educated in the hardships of the world as Grath, Rhys hoped again that he hadn't made a terrible mistake in coming here.

After that came Cireth, who looked something more like what Rhys had expected of the proper Rangers of the North. She entered the tent with a kind of practiced familiarity, as though there could be nothing more natural than entering a group of strangers and casting back her hood, shaking the water free from her hair as she stepped inside and asking permission only after, asking confirmation only once she was already there. Oh, to have that confidence with others -- but, no. His were the wooded hills and grassy gullies of Bree-land. His were long quiet nights, alone and out of doors. People were not for Rhys...

And perhaps that was why the arrival of another man (Gaeron) calmed the young Ranger's rising nerves. Of course, Eldshaw didn't want to make any presumptions but there was something in the man's cautious glance around, the question with which he began which seemed to suggest that the newest stranger was at least somewhat inclined to similar hesitations around other people.

Speaking of, the tent was getting rather full and with each new entry Rhys had to shift a little further into the corner. Not that he minded -- but it was driving the first person who had followed him (Rien) closer, and Rhys couldn't help but note that she had been eyeing him with a curious half-smile. Not an ugly look or a glare, at least, but still -- it made Rhys uncertain.

"Hallo." he finally murmured, as the rest of the eyes in the tent were drawn to the newest entry. "Have we met afore?"
Last edited by Androthelm on Sun Aug 16, 2020 11:03 pm, edited 2 times in total.
In the deeps of Time, amidst the Innumerable Stars

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Círeth
Saying Hello

Círeth stepped aside as a young man (Gaeron) followed her into the space. Having noticed the chill in her extremities, she balled her hands into fists and blew into them each in turn to bring feeling back to her fingertips. She nodded at the man who'd come in after her in silent greeting as she did so, then glanced keenly around the tent to size up the situation.

Counting herself, there were six people present. Three men, three women. She smiled. She might not know any of the gathered rangers well, but she was satisfied to see that there were no grouchy old men like Peldir here to tell her she needed to take a step back. She loved her uncle like a father and credited him with her skills, but she also could not help resisting the reins he tried to put on her. She saw not the youthful folly of this sentiment, only the possibility for great and important deeds.

The two individuals farthest into the tent were a man and woman (Grath and Inbar). The shadows within the tent obscured their features. Another two (Rien and Rhys) were already in conversation. This woman in particular looked familiar. Judging by the grin that split her face when she laid eyes on Círeth, she knew Círeth by sight as well. She stepped over to them, and without batting an eye, engaged them in conversation. "I've got a similar question as this fellow here. I have a feeling you and I have crossed paths. Osdolen, no?" She smiled. "You might know my uncle. Peldir. Used to run the training ground at Maenorthrond."

Satisfied that the feeling had returned to her fingers, Círeth began wringing out her soaked hair a handful at a time. She was blissfully oblivious to the fact that she'd neglected to introduce herself. Water dripped to the ground beneath her, some splashing her boots. Adrenaline and something like elation coursed through her at the thought of having something to do and others with whom to set out on a journey, no matter how soaked-through she might be.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

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Esteldín, ranger outpost

“Finnbarr could do with making an appearance tonight, if the rain keeps up like this we might need his boat,” Grath said with a short bark of laughter, but before she could answer Inbar’s question, a man (Rhys) entered the tent. Young, hesitant, but earnest. Following close on his heels, a woman (Rien), just as young, and more eager- not knowing, it seemed, that there was a task to be done, before she had stepped inside this tent. Grath allowed her brother to do the talking, studying the pair. A third entered: another young woman (Círeth), this one who seemed to know what she was here for; then another man (Gaeron). Grath watched them, and listened as they introduced (or reintroduced) themselves to one another, filing their names away behind her eyes. Her posture as they spoke was that of seeming indifference, leaning forward in her chair, elbows on legs, hands dropped, clasped, between her knees as she watched. More than one face she had glimpsed before, but was unsurprised that none of these young people were much familiar to her. She could only hope that they competent and more knowledgable of the world than their years might imply. Gaeron was a bit older, and hopefully more experienced- perhaps he would be a bridge between them. With the conversation descending into pleasantries, the ranger at last straightened in her chair, and shook the hair back from her face.

“I am called Grath Longfletch, of Holt Lutra.” her voice was low, with an edge of gravel, and though not loud demanded the attention of all. “And you have indeed come to the right place. At first light I will be leading a mission out from here, to the village of Trestlebridge. We will deliver supplies to aid the villagers, who have been struck by parties of orcs. But our primary aim is to pursue these orcs and destroy them, so they can cause no more harm. We will, if all goes aright,” Grath pulled another letter from within her jerking, and slapped it against her hand, before waving it before her, “be joined on the road by a small party of elves. Astaro and his Moles.” Knowledge of the House of the Mole was not necessarily common among Men, but hopefully it was at least evident to all that she did not speak of the soft-furred burrow-dwellers. “They roam North and wish to aid us.” A hint of skepticism rode beneath these words- it was not that Grath did not believe Astaro’s desire was genuine, more that she expected to have to fight him (literally or figuratively) to retain leadership of the mission. She did not trust him; not because he was Mole, but because he had done nothing to prove himself trustworthy in her eyes.

“After we see our duty clear in Trestlebridge we will continue on, north of Deadman’s Dike, to seek out these orcs. You should know that this party are known to have come from far north, and have been marked with the red claw. They have come south from Angmar, for what purpose we do not know. It may be that we are able to extract information from them before their demise. There will, in any circumstance, be slaughter. If you are now prepared for this, you should leave this tent now.” As she spoke, Grath made eye contact with each of the newcomers in turn. She knew that not all, even among rangers, had her thirst for bringing death to all who opposed them. But should they decide to remain, she would expect them to do what she deemed necessary. “Have ye any questions?”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

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Gaeron

He could finally feel his fingers again, which judging from the nature of the upcoming mission, might be the last time he would feel warm for days, if they were lucky, but more likely for weeks or even months. He looked around at the other Rangers in the tent, a few faces looked familiar, perhaps they had passed by in Osdolen once or twice, but then, he had never putting names to faces, at least, not right away. He looked around, realising that many of those in the tent were wide-eyed, eager, young folk. He had been in their shoes not too long ago, but had also seen much and fought many battles over the last ten years. His eyes told the stories of long travels far away, of fights with both orcs and men, of a desire to keep the lands at peace.

The woman, Grath, who seemed to be in charge of this entire mission, explained the plan. It naturally included delivering some relief supplies to affected communities, but as with far to many missions these days, the primary focus was on destroying orcs. They were to be joined by a group of elves, which Gaeron silently approved of. Like many Rangers, his travels had taken him into the valley of Rivendell from time to time and he had greatly enjoyed the company of the elves on those occasions.

At the mention of the red claw, Gaeron inwardly shuddered. Orcs in general were ill-met, but these ones, were even more vicious if the tales were true. Grath spoke of the danger of the mission, and after laying everything out as clearly as possible, asked if there were any questions. Gaeron stared into the fire for a few moments, pondering the new information. "How long have these orcs been devastating the surrounding villages?" Dark times were coming, but how had orcs been permitted to walk throughout the regions, destroying all in their path. It had only been in recent years that the activity of the evil forces from the mountains had increased, but so often they were stopped by Rangers before they got close to the villages. What had been distracting the Rangers to allow these orcs to come so far?

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Inbar Trueflight

As was his normal wont, Inbar remained quiet as two more individuals entered into the tent and began to converse with those already arrived. He nodded to each of them, a cursory greeting for now. He would speak to them more once the mission itself was underway. There were too many people in a relatively (at least to his mind) small tent. Each time the tent flap opened to allow them entry, a blast of cold, wet, mildewy air came with them. Each time they entered, he thought he could hear a woman's voice on the air. He shook his head, clearing his mind. No. That was just his imagination and the storm playing tricks on him. He sighed and rubbed his face, scratching the stubble that had begun growing along his jawline. He looked the group over again and nodded. It was not a bad group, all told. He knew none of them but it seemed like a few of them had at least a cursory knowledge of each other. That was good. He was not completely sure of the numbers and variety of dangers they were about to face, but he felt at least a little hope blow into the tent. His apprehension, that ever present companion of his, relaxed. He put down the knife and the piece of wood he had been carving and gave the room his full attention, not just the people within but the space itself. There was a heady, humid feeling in here that had very little to do with the rains outside. A nervous tension wove itself in tight, intricate knots from person to person. None of them know the exact extent of the mission, even himself; Grath had given him the overview but none of the details. He knew what they would be doing and where they would be going, it beyond that he was in the dark. He didn’t mind, he trust his sister implicitly. She would tell him exactly what he needed to know and when. As a scholar this would have driven him up the walls with frustration and angst, but as a Ranger (fledging though he may be) he knew it was part of the structure.

Finally, his sister spoke. She began detailing the particulars of the mission, a supply run and extermination. It seemed simple enough, but Inbar was no fool, he knew that if it was as simple as that then the mission would have already been carried out. His apprehension was back, like a wet, angry dog. His mouth worked itself into an expression of mistrust at her mention of the Moles. He knew next to nothing about them. What he did know came directly from his sister and her opinion of them was mixed at best. He could sense the misgivings in her voice as she spoke of them, though it was likely only he caught it. He shot her a concerned look quickly, then relaxed his expression to one more neutral. There was already enough to stress about this mission without adding his own misgivings to the fray. Then she mentioned Angmar. A chill ran down his spine and, unless he was mistaken a very strong gust of icy cold wind blasted against the northern side of the tent. He swallowed hard. It made sense. Any sort of organization amongst the orcs and men of the area came from there. It had supposedly been abandoned for years, but Inbar knew that wasn’t true.

As she finished, he too watched the faces of the newcomers. Not knowing any of them, he felt it part of his responsibility to gauge their reactions to the information. Without looking away from them, his fingers found the small wooden figure he was carving and squeezed reflexively. This was going to be a hard mission. But he was ready. He inhaled deeply and glanced back at his sister. Despite the dour tone of the atmosphere around them and the grim news and orders, Inbar smiled.

“This will be good practice for my bow,” he winked, touching the scar. “And the sword too, suppose. From the sound of it there will be plenty of targets for both.”
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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Isolde & Beren
Legendary Journeys of Long Ago


"How did I ever let him talk me into this?" She asked herself as she poked at the fire burning before her. The answer was simple. He was Beren and that cursed grin of his talked her into many things she normally would have let pass...and he did have some fun ideas too she had to give him that. She'd found herself in unfamiliar lands and not really sure how much further she should go the young Rohir decided to make camp after finding a comfortable alcove that would work for shelter for the night.

Her mare Anlicar nickered in the background. "I know..you don't have to tell me. " She half answered over her shoulder then stirred the pot of stew that bubbled over some hot coals while her pot of water started to boil. Waiting she pulled out his letter. Turning the parchment to the fires light she read it again, checking the directions once more.

Nope, she wasn't lost...at least not according to the parchment. She felt lost though and she never liked that feeling. Maybe that was why she felt she could strangle him at the moment. When a long braid of russet hair slipped over her shoulder she tossed it back over the same shoulder with a quick flip. Her tea wasn't ready yet so she pulled a flask from her pack which rest beside her. Pulling the cap she took a long drink. The burn slipped down her throat but it eased the need to hurt her dear friend so she took another till the feeling was gone and her tea had seeped enough to pour a cup.

@Aigronding Mordagnir
Isolde Alarion/Rohan~Nelladel Alarion/Gondor~Mourgan Alarion/Gondor ~ Dahak/ Umbar ~ Relic RIP

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Storm Crows
The Ettenmoors

(Private with Frost and Tara)

Hrafnhildr had traveled for many days, south and east cross-country from the Cape of Forochel. The going had been easy and her pace swift, miles devoured by her tireless legs from dawn to dusk, and many hours besides. She was not one to tarry in idleness, least of all now. The summons from Carn Dûm had come unexpectedly, and the task it proclaimed was tasteless, but irrefusable. Though it were hardly high summer, descending into more southerly regions had seen her shed a number of outer garments as she traveled: Hrafnhildr was Lossoth, and used to existing in the ceaseless winter of Forochel and its Icebay, where the wind would blow through the unwary and snuff out their lives without consideration, leaving behind only a swell in the snow. Even the hardiest such as she were given no mercy by their homeland, and if one failed to respect Forochel even for a short time, it would exact its revenge without thought for loyalty.

So it was that when she made camp in the Ettenmoors, her pack bulged with the extraneous material, leaving Hrafnhildr garbed in trews of reindeer hide, weathered and softened to grey, their cinched cuffs tucked into the tops of sleek sealskin calf-boots, their sturdy soles used to repelling the cutting ice of Forochel well adapted to the current environment. In place of the substantial fur parkas and insulative upper-body layers of the far north, she wore only a single long-sleeved tunic of light, fine-spun blue wool so dark it seemed almost black, obtained in trade with the Dúnedain. It echoed the shape of a fur parka, extending to just about her knees with a split up either side to just below the hip, and a curved hem front and back. At the throat it was split for easy removal in a cut that extended to mid-sternum, currently laced shut with sinew-cord. Its cuffs were long and loose, and embroidered with a design of snarling wolves. Around her waist was tied a gut parka, for though it was not cold here, the clouds above these mountains were likely to unleash heavy rain at any moment. Pulled overhead, the hooded coat, prepared and sewn of seal intestines in the extreme conditions of Forochel, would protect both woman and pack from the most severe downpour and wind.

Upon her arrival to this region, Hrafnhildr had encountered one of the trolls after which it was named, and been obliged to kill it. It would listen neither to reason nor intimidation, nor to the minor wounds which she first inflicted. The hill-trolls were larger than any man, but not so large as some of their cousins, and no more intelligent. It had been the work of moments for her to eliminate this specimen, alone as it had been. The weapon which had struck the killing blow rode now on Hrafnhildr’s right leg, strapped to the outside from knee to hip: a snow knife, a curious straight long-knife unique to the Lossoth, and sheathed with its sharp edge facing forward so that upon drawing with the same-side hand it would be held at the ready in a reverse grip. Hrafnhildr’s legs were longer than the rest of her kind, and so was her snow knife. This particular blade had been made in the traditional manner, of bone, though there were many of steel among the Lossoth now. Her snow knife had been carved from the femur of the great white bear she had slain in her youth, and specially treated so that its integrity rivalled the best of steel. The base of the hill-troll’s skull had been no match for it.

Though the troll was no good for eating and nothing upon its person of particular use, Hrafnhildr had tracked it back to its hide when the sun arose, bearing with her the hammer it had wielded. Here she stashed the hammer, in case of returning for it later- with her skill, size, and strength, she could use such a thing, but there was no time or need now to carry its weight along. In the hide too she found a store of dried meats and added these to her pack, along with a number of small valuables the troll had no doubt stripped from less wary travelers. Thus enriched, she returned to her original course: a ruined fort on the southwest tip of the Ettenmoors. It was there she had been instructed to meet the pair of men -if you could call them that, though each for different reasons- who were coming north, one to be transferred to her custody for the remainder of his journey to Carn Dûm and the Iron Queen. The fort was at a good vantage point, on top of one of the large hills that abutted the mountains behind, surrounded by rock and coniferous trees behind, with a clear view of the flatlands below from which they would come. Hrafnhildr had set up her camp in a crumbling watchtower, enough roof remaining to shelter her from the elements, and a south-facing window both for ventilation of her fire, and a view of the inevitable approach. Satisfied with her ability to see danger coming from any side, Hrafnhildr had settled in.

For three days she had waited, resting and eating in relative luxury, the bolas habitually carried bound about her hips providing plentiful fresh meat in the form of mountain hares. The ease of their acquisition was a novelty, and Hrafnhildr’s only regret was that she had not the time to make use of all the parts of the animals as she normally would, but by casting the inedible detritus back into the mountain forest, she at least allowed some other predator or scavenger to take advantage of them. It was late morning on the fourth day when at last, her quarry hove into view. Hrafnhildr had been seated on her perch of rubble at the window, idly carving a stick into some fanciful shape with her skinning knife, when a movement attracted her eyes. Turning her head, she squinted slightly, and in the distance it became clear: from distant scrub and the lifting fog, emerged two dark shapes, resolving quickly into mounted figures. Hrafnhildr straightened, brushing back the strands of hair that had broken free of her thick white braid, and folded her arms on the stone sill of the window. She lowered her chin into her arms, and waited. The figures grew larger and larger, and were soon visible as two tall men: one of whom she estimated would be only slightly taller than herself, and the other who would tower over them both even when not ahorse.

They were headed this way with haste. Hrafnhildr would let them come to her.
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Storm Crows
The edges of Rohan, and the Ettenmoors
(Private with Moriel and Tara)

Frost and the vampire travelled for a week without stopping, only breaking in their long trek northward to sleep and eat. Frost, and his destrier, were beginning to feel run ragged by the pace of the trek. His muscles were knotted and sore, more than once they had spasmed and cramped as he dismounted and he’d fallen to the ground in a heap of pain. The wound on his hand from the knife still throbbed and pulsed. At night, the Númenórean swore he could see the wound glow with a pale light. His dreams were filled with visions a woman with flaming red hair, with blood, fire, and death. He never saw her face, but with every dream he felt the connection with her grow stronger, whether that connection would spell his demise only time would tell. He was tired. That’s all he could focus on now. His body was sore and stiff, his mind was slow and sluggish.

The sun was setting as they rounded a hill, setting the western horizon on fire. A cold wind blasted through them. Frost wrapped the cloak about his thick frame to block the chill. He could still feel the cold creeping in, like the fingers of a skeleton wrapping his sore muscles. There was a scent of snow in the air. It was still early in the year, but the further north they travelled, the colder and more vacant the air became.

There was a village not a league off from where they stood, tiny pinpricks of light dotted the enshadowed hillside, the sounds of life and civilization came to Frost’s ears. It felt strange, alien.

“We’re stopping here,” he announced.

The vampire, sitting high in his stirrups, turned to regard him then the village, as if it was the first time he’d seen it. “No. We keep moving. You are already far behind schedule. The Delgaran –”

“Will not likely be pleased with you should I arrive dead,” Frost cut the vampire off. He looked his companion over and for the first time in a week, really examined him. The dying light cast long, sinister shadows over the marble like structure of his face, but Frost could see elven features, high brows and pointed ears, things he had noticed in the flight hither. “My horse is tired and I need supplies. Surely one night will not rupture your schedule too much?”

The vampire said nothing. His golden eyes surveyed the landscape with lazy indifference. He looked back at Frost and dipped his head slightly. “One night, and thusly you will owe me a favor.”

The Númenórean squinted dubiously at his companion. “Owe you a favor? What kind of favor can a mortal do for a vampire?”

The vampire stood tall and silent. He was unmoving, even his horse beneath him stood stock still. It was an eerie sight. The image brought to mind what others might see in the Nazgûl. Only this creature before him was far older than they. For the first time since they’d begun traveling together, Frost felt a slugging, creeping fear seeping into him. It was unsettling to say the least. Even if he was going to be forced to spend his time amongst the strawheads tonight, he welcomed the company of simpletons to put a barrier between himself and the vampire.

So, they traveled down the hillock, Frost taking the lead. The village was barely more than a few houses, a barn, and a tavern, but it would do for the night. The closer they came the more the Númenórean could distinguish the sounds merriment. Voices, instruments, the howling of dogs and the yowling of cats. It was the cacophony of life. He’d missed this, even if was only a week. The silence that existed between himself and the other was beginning to grow unbearable. There was often silence on his sea voyages, when the crew were too busy to speak or at night when there was nothing but the sound of the winds and water, but the silence of the past week had been something else entirely. It was not just an absence of sound. There was no void into which an easy conversation could affix itself. There was something there, something that normally existed underneath sounds but never had the chance to exist on its on merit. The silence was full of creeping doubts, monstrous suggestions, and terrifying implications. He would be glad to be rid of it for at least a few hours. All Rohirrim were awful at conversation and they’d all point and stare at the tall, black haired Umbarian like slack jawed simpletons, but at least they’d not stare at him as though they might see him as a steak to chew on. Frost could feel yellow eyed gaze on the back of his head. There was an itch between his shoulder blades that would not dissipate.

He was right. As soon as the duo cleared the trees, young oaks that stood in clusters near the road, all eyes turned to stare at them. At first Frost could feel all eyes staring directly at him, then once Arioch cleared the trees, Frost was nearly forgotten. Murmurs rippled through the townsfolk like a wave. Even as the sun was setting, there was enough light to cast a terrible shadow. The only thing completely visible were his glowing yellow eyes, great pits of sickly light. A few of the plebeians made a gesture as if to ward off evil and hurried out of the way, back into their thatched roof cottages.

They moved along the streets in silence. The only sound was the gentle, rhythmic clopclopclopclop of the horses’ iron shoes. They headed directly for the inn, the only place that now had any sound. A musician was playing something, a ballad about one of the ancient kings of the Rohirrim before they were Rohirrim. The song and the minstrel faltered when Frost threw the door open and entered the establishment. The horses were stabled nearby, Frost’s eagerly partaking in the apples and hay that was provided him. Arioch’s own flaxen chestnut horse did not, he merely stood at attention until the vampire whispered something to it. Frost was too far away to catch it but the sound was unmistakably Black Speech. The horse relaxed and began to eat slowly, still hardly moving.

A wave smells assailed him; stale beer, meat on edge of going bad, straw, sweat, winter vegetables in a stew. It was not a bad smell altogether, but it did make him miss the smell of the sea air. The light was minimal at best, a few torches were all the provided any visibility. The windows all faced the east.

Frost sat down at the nearest empty table, Arioch sitting across from him. The Númenórean removed his hood and surveyed the interior as best he could. There were at least a dozen men in here, all of them looking at two newcomers without actually looking at them. Conversation and music started up hesitantly.

A young man approached them, wearing a dirty apron. “Can I get you gentle…men anything?” His voice was friendly, but his eyes wandered from one to the other with a nervous tick.

“Two ales,” Frost said, staring the boy directly in the eyes. “And a bowl of that stew I smell.”

The boy swallowed hardly and scurried off. Frost watched him and involuntarily his hand went to his hip to wrap around the hilt of his sword.

“Well,” Arioch said at last, “is this what you were hoping for?” He waved his hand about dismissively. “We’re the center of attention here. I hear you like that sort of thing. I wonder how much it would cost you to try and bed them all.”

Frost rolled his eyes. “You’re so funny.” His eyes did dart from the vampire to the rest of the crowd. They were doing a better job of not looking at them but he could tell they were still the center of attention. Alone, he would have caused a stir; a tall, dark, handsome man appearing out of nowhere. There were legends about such men, haunters of the dark, lurkers at the threshold. They made deals with unsuspecting bumpkins, and ate the souls of those unable to pay them. A cruel smile slipped over Frost’s lips. He ought to try that at some point, it was bound to help him along with his goals.

“Hey you!”

He was brought out of his thoughts by a large, dirty blonde Rohir with a gut that spilled over his waist.

“Yes?” Arioch placed his hands on the table and rolled his neck to look at the newcomer, letting out a mocking chuckle.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” The man’s voice was hard, but Frost noticed a hint of panic. This man had not chosen to confront them, he had been selected by his peers. Frost peered around him and noticed the serving boy with his dirty apron. He was clinging to a decayed wooden frame like his life depended on it.

“We’re taking in the sights and enjoying the fare,” Frost said before his companion could come up with a response. “Is there something wrong here?”

“You aren’t welcomed here. We’re Bema fearing folk here and we don’t want to break bread with the likes of you.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Frost said with an exasperated sigh. “You bloody strawheads are all the same. In the capital or in the hinterlands where cousins are the only viable partners. I have a signed proclamation from you king granting us safe passage through here. Would anyone care to look at it? Can any one of you read?”

A man stepped forward from the crowd, the only man here that seemed to have bathed in a month. “Let me see it,” he demanded, his voice hard.

Frost’s eyes glittered, the wound on his hand pulsed with hungry, avarice life. He took the parchment from his breast pocket and handed it over. The man looked like he was in the Cavalry as well, his clothing was too fine, compared to the rough spun potato sacks the rest of the pissants were wearing. He looked over the note slowly. Frost grumbled, grinding his teeth.

“I thought you said you could read,” he said at last.

“I’m just being thorough,” the Cav member said defensively.

“I’m always happily surprised when the muckrakers learn a skill other than rutting with the farm animals. It gives me such hope for you mortals.”

“You son of a –” the first man, the fat one came out from behind the cavalryman, swinging his beer stein above his head. He had been aiming for the vampire’s head, but Arioch was far too quick.

Before the man was even at top of his swing, Arioch slid from his seat, somehow passed through the three other men that had gathered around them and gotten behind him. Before the man could so much as acknowledge this, Arioch had taken the man’s arm in both of his and ripped backwards. The sound of tearing flesh and crunching bone echoed. Frost cursed under his breath. The man let out a blood curdling scream. A gout of blood splashed across the table.

The room exploded.

Frost watched the two men Arioch had bypassed converge on him, moving inhumanely fast. They had knives in their hands but Arioch was faster, he whirled around one, grabbing him by the wrist and slamming the knife he held into his compatriot’s belly. He grunted. Arioch let go of the man’s wrist, shifted to his other side then wrapped his unnaturally pale hands around the man’s throat. A quick snap and the man’s head was turned the wrong way around.

Frost’s attention was taken by the cavalry member though. He had a sword drawn already and was moving to attack Arioch’s blindside.

“Goddammit,” Frost muttered.

Out came his sword, a longsword, roughly five and a half feet in length forged from the molten heart of Orodruin. The blade hissed when he pulled it free from the leather sheath. There were hundreds of swirling folds detailing the black steel. Runes danced along the edges. The knife wound in his left hand pulsed with glee.

He caught the guard’s blow and thrust it aside and, in a maneuver normally associated with dancing, moved between the vampire and the cavalryman.

“Stand down son, this is not a fight you’re going to win. Let it go and let it be.” He knew his words for futile as soon as they left his mouth. He hadn’t even meant them. In truth, while he hadn’t been looking for a fight here, he was going to make damn sure everyone was laid low. He was going to enjoy this.

The serving boy came out of nowhere with a bloody meat cleaver, shouting some nonsense in Rohirric that Frost didn’t bother listening to. He shoved the cavalryman aside, knocking him over the edge of a table to send him flying then, in a wide arc, bisected the boy, slicing him from the right side of his neck to the left hip. He didn’t even have time to realize he was dead before his body slumped in two pieces. He flicked the blood away and moved on the cavalryman who had since recovered. He beat him back with short, angry blows, none designed to penetrate his defenses but to keep him off guard. The man lost his footing, tumbled over a chair and Frost’s blade sliced upwardly through his sword arm. The blade skittered to the floor. Before Frost could finish him off and put him out of his misery, a man grabbed him from behind in a monstrous bear hug, howling with rage. Frost slammed his head backward, connected the back of his head with the man’s jaw. There was a crunch. A shiver of pain went down the Númenorean’s spine, but he was released. The man tumbled backward and Frost swung his blade across the man’s belly, spilling his intestines out on the floor. He slumped, trying to fit his guts back inside him. Another man came out of the woodworks. Frost slammed a fist it the man’s face. He stumbled back and Frost leapt on him, forcing him down to the ground. He rained punches down, howling as he felt the man’s skull give with each punch. The sounds of ripping and slurping filled the air, Arioch was dealing with his opponents with ease as well it would seem. A final slam and the man’s face caved in completely. Frost wiped the brains off his glove and stood up. A fire had started in the kitchens somehow.

Frost cracked his knuckles and sighed. “Of course it’s fire. These strawhead fools love their fire. You’d think they’d have progressed to the point where fires could be contained but apparently not. They should still be living in caves.”

Arioch was covered in blood, from head to foot. He was grinning, Frost could see the blisteringly white fangs peaking through the miasma of red.

“Happy now?”

“Very,” drawled the vampire.

As he turned, another man came through the flames of the kitchen, each hand wielding long, dangerous looking knives. Frost sidestepped him, twisted around so that he was facing the man’s back. He muttered something under his breath, a cantrip to add force to his blow, the slammed his fist through the man’s back and bursting out of his chest, holding his heart in his hand. The man went limp immediately and fell face first on the floor. He dropped the heart next him and looked back at Arioch.

“We have to kill everyone now, you know that don’t you?”

The elven vampire shrugged, as if the thought had crossed his mind and it was already a foregone conclusion. “Men, women, and children. The fire should help with that.”

Frost looked back at the kitchen. The flames were beginning to get out of control. Soon the place would be a lit with orange, rapacious flames. He could hear the roar and the screams in his head as the flames leapt from building to building. He smiled.

“Do your work. I’ll get the stragglers.”

He wiped the blood from his blade and sheathed it. Right below that sheath rode the dagger he was to deliver, he removed it from the sheath and looked at the blade, almost getting lost in the mirrored surface.

He went to work with it, he cut the cavalryman’s throat and let him bleed out. The dagger seemed to drink the blood. The edges of his mouth curled in a hungry smile. He finished off three more men, slicing their throats from ear to ear. It was not that he wanted to end their suffering quickly, it was more that he was tired of the game and was ready to move on, and their suffering was not over, not by far.

He had wanted a night of restful, comfortable sleep. These void beguiled imbeciles could not let him have that. No Rohir could ever give him peace. He’d been attacked tonight, that was the only way he’d been able to slaughter them and not break his oath. He would soon find a way around the rest of the oath and help destroy this place, rick, cot, and tree. The Delgaran would sweep through here like a wildfire.

Screams filled the night air. Men, women, and children. Frost took one last look at the tavern, took a swig of one of the ales that had not been knocked over, savored it, then walked out, knife in hand.

Another week on the road and they were out of Rohan, out of Dunland, and into the Ettenmoors. Frost’s wound had still not healed, it bled from time to time, and his dreams were more and more of this woman wreathed in fire and destruction. Magic woven about her like ribbons in her hair. When he awoke, he only had the vaguest memories, the haziest inclination, that there had been more in the dreams. Had she spoken to him? Had he actually seen her face this time? Where had they been in these dreams? The unknowing frustrated him. After he used the knife to kill the villagers the dreams had grown more vivid, it was then that he finally connected the two. Though how they were related and why were still a mystery, as much as the woman in his dreams.

The journey had continued on in that same loud silence as before. Frost though, brooded and kept his mind from wondering. Arioch seemed in good spirits though. He was more dangerous than ever.

It was on an overcast afternoon that they finally spoke again.

“That favor you owe me will soon come to payment.”

“The… the favor? Stopping in the village where you massacred everyone? How is that something I need to repay? You ought to repay me.” Frost put a hand on the knife. They were about ten paces apart, each atop their mounts. Frost had seen how fast the vampire moved when he was going in for a kill. He was not going to take any chances.

“You agreed before any of that happened. That’s not an issue with me, that’s an issue for you. You got something out of it too, if I recall. You are no one’s paramour, Frost. You are a killer. I helped remind you of that. I saw the look on your face when you shoved your fist through that man’s chest. You enjoyed it. You felt powerful. You are, as long as you don’t get sidetracked by the temporary pleasures of the flesh.”

“What’s the payment?” Frost asked impatiently.

“You will see soon enough. We are meeting someone. Someone who will be taking you the rest of the way north.”

“Another escort?” Frost whistled and spat. “How many escorts do I bloody need?”

“Just the one more,” the vampire’s smile was wicked, holding a secret.

“Well, where are they?” Frost asked.

“She’s near. Over in that ruined fort on the crest of that hill.”

Frost squinted through the gloom. Atop the hill was a broken shell, barely a fort. “Then we mustn’t keep her waiting.” He grumbled. Two weeks with this vampire had set him on edge. What more tortures in the Delgaran have in store for him? Something told him it was only just beginning.

They made haste, Frost’s great black destrier taking the lead once more. A soft rain began to fall. The mists were getting thick.

Soon enough, he crested the hill and entered the shattered remains of what once could have been called a fort, now it was a haphazard pile of stones. But in the center, there she was.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Ettenmoors

(Private with Frost and Tara)

She watched until they reached the foot of the hill upon which her fort perched, then turned from the window. Hrafnhildr replaced what contents of her pack she had removed and cinched it shut, turning down and buckling its rainflap. A pattering on the stones overhead and outside of the open portal into her tower indicated that the heavy clouds had begun to give up their rain again, and she tugged on the gut parka before sheathing her snow knife on her right leg, her skinning knife on the opposite, and binding the bolas back about her hips. Having long since doused the fire, she kicked its ashes to disperse them, and turned to the door, shouldering the pack onto her back. The soft sound of approaching hooves reached her ears above the softly falling rain, and she left her haven of the past days. The courtyard below was just as empty as it had been since she arrived, but this was soon to change. Hrafnhildr strode to the staircase behind the broken battlements, and descended from the wall with her eyes fixed on what had once been the gates. Even as she reached the center of the courtyard and came to a halt, there they were.

Two tall figures on horseback as she had seen in the distance, now standing before her. The first to enter, the object of her journey. The second, the taller one, looked amused with himself, and Hrafnhildr met the vampire’s lurid yellow eyes. She knew who he was; the Delgaran had described him in her letter, but further than that, tales of this creature and his ilk had been told around the campfires of the Lossoth for generations. A lean, towering figure; eyes yellow as a lynx, with stark white hair that seemed to move of its own accord: Arioch, denizen of the mountains of Angmar, ripper of throats and drinker of blood, Thuringwethil’s spawn, the last great vampire. Or so the stories said- Hrafnhildr wouldn’t have put it past the beast to have spread rumors of his own greatness. The sense of his fell presence was palpable, but she held his eyes, hard and unafraid. She had seen more fearsome things.

“Arioch,” she greeted him flatly, pushing back the hood of her gut parka just enough to reveal her face fully, resting behind the peak of her white braid. “Took you long enough.”

For the first time, she fixed the man she had come to guide with her glacial gaze. He was, as she remembered, slightly taller than she; his hair as dark and his face as pretty as she recalled, despite the passage of years. There was an air about him, though, of things unsettled. Her lip curled. “Frost.” When Hrafnhildr spoke this name, it landed like a glob of phlegm on the courtyard stones. “You look sick.” Her eyes flicked back to the vampire. “What have you done to him? She wanted him whole.” Not giving Arioch a chance to respond, she looked to Frost again. “I am called Hrafnhildr. Some know me as Ylva.” She considered him. “You may call me Hrafnhildr. I am to convey you safely to the Delgaran.”
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The Ettenmoors
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Frost looked the woman up and down. She was severe and dark; her eyes were angry swells of storms. She wanted to be his escort as much as he wanted one. Still, there was a beauty within her, feral and spartan though it may have been. Her eyes, the set of her jaw, her hair, they all reminded him of someone. He couldn’t put his finger on who though. The question was destined to be an itch in the back of his mind until he figured it out. The more he looked at her, the more he felt like whomever her resemblance to should have been obvious, but the answer remained shrouded in smoke and flowing flurries of snow. The mystery frustrated him, but he remained as calm as he could. She and the vampire seemed to know each other, and both seemed to have a dismissive attitude toward each other. The Númenórean grumbled under his breath and pulled his cloak closer about him. The cold was setting in, he could feel the icy bite of the wind deep in his bones. Unable to find words suitable for the occasion, he gave the woman a perfunctory nod. She knew who he was, and was utterly uninterested in learning more about him, so Frost guessed from her attitude, and thus he was in no hurry to learn anything about her. However, the shadowy images of ravens and wolves followed in her wake in his mind. He squinted; she was someone he should know; he could feel that. “Ylva,” he finally said, testing the name he was not allowed to use and chuckled, she was prickly enough to be a she-wolf.

The rest of this trip was going to be even more dry and silent than the first half. For the umpteenth he wished he hadn’t tarried so long in the god forsaken country of strawheads. The impromptu mission he’d decided to embark on, the twisting and breaking of one of the Marshals to become a spy, witting or unwitting, had resulted in not only a lose of time, but the leeching on of lovesick puppy. Frost was normally quite good at espionage; however, he hadn’t expected the woman to latch onto him the way she had. Desperate, lonely women were often easy to break and bend to one’s will. She was a different kind of animal. Lonely and isolated, she clung to him like a newborn kitten. But he was no mother cat and had no patience for it. He was going to have to explain himself to the Delgaran. He had a very vivid idea what the punishment would be for this. Blasted Rohir! The whole lot of that country were useless. A pockmark on the landscape of Middle-Earth. Fully incensed by his own thought spiral, he hadn’t realized the woman spoke to him again until the vampire scoffed and oozed off his horse like liquid shadow.

“I did nothing to him. If anything, I saved him from deteriorating further. He has one her knives and decided to use it on himself to swear an oath. Humans have a deep love for the overdramatic, this one especially” His voice was mocking and casual. “We stopped by a village and I allowed him to engage his fighting spirit. Allowed him to use the knife in a way that would actually benefit him.”

Frost cast a glance over at the vampire and glared at him. He’d suspected that Arioch had deliberately provoked the already on edge townspeople but hadn’t broached the subject. For several days and nights, he had felt much better, more alive and aware of his surroundings. Yet still, his mental acuity had been declining, his awareness too. His body cramped at odd intervals, several times nearly causing him to fall from his horse and random flashes of heat threatened to burn him from the inside out, despite the deepening chill in the air. The knife. It all came down to that knife apparently. He grumbled again and tried to pull himself up and over his horse but as he swung his leg over, it cramped. The sudden and unexpected pain caused him to lose his balance, his horse reared up, startled, and Frost fell like a sack to the earth. The ground was cold and hard. He landed on his side. A mix of rage and humiliation, he picked himself up stood on unsteady legs. “Are there any dolmens around this area? Any tombs or mausoleums? I have a need to destroy something.” He hissed, looking from Hrafnhildr to Arioch. “Well?” He gripped the knife underneath his cloak. His hands were beginning to numb from the cold, but he felt the metal digging into the flesh of his hand, the wound he’d caused himself still raw and writhing.

The vampire chuckled dryly.

Frost wheeled about, pulling the massive sword from the scabbard. “I am in no mood, vampire. Where?” In his fury, Frost didn’t realize until he looked at his free hand that he was holding the dagger again. It gleamed in the frosty air. Frost’s vision blurred at the edges. He could have sworn he saw the blade writhe in his hand like a live serpent. He gritted his teeth angrily.

Arioch had not moved; his arms were cross over his chest in a display of casual indifference. Lazily, he looked over at Hrafnhildr. “You are going to have your hands full; the growing belligerence is a sign of his weakening resolve. Neither of us need Delgaran’s wrath over his demise. That wrath ought to be reserved for him.”

Frost’s knuckles cracked as he tightened the grips on his weapons. “Tell me vampire, or I swear I will send you to that void you have so long wanted to stave off!”

That got the vampire’s attention. Arioch placed a hand on his arming sword and before Frost could move into a defensive position, the vampire drew the blade, swept across his body in a sharp arc that knocked Frost’s larger weapon from his grasp. “If you were but in the fullness of your health, Son of the Morning, I might have cause to fear your threat. But you are an empty shell.” There was something in his voice that forced an echo into Frost’s head, a shrill piping of flutes. “The closer you get to her, the worse it will become. No deal you made can help you in her domain.”

On cue, Frost’s runic tattoos began to burn. They had burned like this once before, in the presence of Sombelenë. Strength ebbed from him and he crumpled to his knees in a wordless howl, the wound on his hand bubbled. Still, he was defiant. “Where is it?”

The vampire took another step, grabbed the hem of the cloak and wrenched the Númenórean back into a standing position. “Like your tutor, I am not one to be trifled with!” he spat. The vampire released him, whose unsteady footing nearly caused him to topple again. “There is a tomb not far from here. An ancient crypt belonging to one of the ancient Rohirric kings. I think that will suffice for you needs.” His bass voice resonated in the air. With a long pale arm, he pointed east.

Frost wordless climbed back on his horse and, without explanation, spurred the beast in the direction Arioch had pointed.

“He’ll be back,” Arioch said to Hrafnhildr, almost as an afterthought. “There’s a ritual he’ll want to complete in that crypt. Then he’ll be more fit for travel. And then we can talk about the price for my involvement in all this. Have you seen Keziah?”

Frost rode his steed hard. His wrath was a cauldron boiling over; it was the only thing sustaining him now. He needed something to rebuild his strength. Only once in a very long time had he been so weak. In Umbar, five years ago. He’d completed a ritual meant to draw a fey out of hiding that had left him frail and aged. The ritual was vampiric in nature, drawing on his own lifeforce to call something out from an aeonic slumber. He used another spell on a woman he met that day, or began working another spell, she had run off before he could siphon away all the years he’d lost. The lost little noblewoman, so sure of herself in a land of wolves and monsters. He presented himself as the only shining light in a land of shadow of void. Little had she known that he was the blackest thing that could have found her. Soon he came to an unnatural mound, crowned with a white stone covered in rudimentary pictographs of horses and riders. He paid little heed to the images though.

“There are voices in the air,” he began to sing, “There are voices in the air. They always find me, oh they find me, no matter where I go. There are voices in my head, oh there are voices in my head. They won't leave me, never leave me, no matter where I go.

“There are chains now in the field, there are chains now in the field. There's no freedom, no freedom. There's no freedom in the field. When I finally stop to breathe, when I finally stop to breathe all the voices, oh all the voices will only linger in the field, will only linger in the field, will only linger in the field.*”

The song was an old one, something for the old country, from the island paradise that had been stolen from his people. He hummed the tune as ripped the stone down. The earth groaned and protested as he tore away at the burial mound. He could the war of exhaustion and rage waging in his muscles. He howled wordlessly as the stone began to budge. Deep within, the rage began to build and build, pushing the exhaustion aside. Strength and warmth returned to him as the stone toppled and rolled down the hill. He snarled like a ravenous beast. He followed the stone to the entrance to the tomb. A single stone, circular and smooth stood in his way. His knuckles popped in anticipation. He pulled the stone away, his fingers finding a hideous strength as his quarry lay within reach. A stench burst forth from the now open tomb, but Frost was able to ignore it. His focus was sharpening. He entered the darkness, air thrumming around him in an aura of dangerous potential energy. His tattoos buzzed.


I believe in Sauron!
Who rend both heavens and earth
And in the Witch-King
His dearly misbegotten
The anguish ov our future
A bastard spawned from lie
Born ov a ravaged elfling
Reign high in luxury aloft the kings ov man

Who shall crucify the last stewards
And have them wilt on splintered stems?
Who shall churn hells across the earth
And reascend to seat himself
At the left hand ov Sauron
Be gaoler ov the living
And ov the dead
As it was in the beginning
Now and shall ever be
World without end
Amen**

The incantation vibrated into the empty, hollow space. The stench fled and the tomb was replaced with an emptiness so complete that the air was suffocating with extraneous, hellish heat. The words died, echoing longer than they should have in an enclosed space like this. Frost was alone. Before he was a large stone sarcophagus with a heavy lid lain upon the tomb. The Númenórean took a deep breath, gripped the edges, and pushed off with his long legs. The lid creaked and groaned then roared as it toppled over, crashing and shattering on the ground. Frost spat contemptuously and looked into the opened grave. A skeleton dressed in kingly finery lay exposed and vulnerable. Rage filled Frost like warm mulled wine. He picked up the skull of the long dead king and laughed. “Did you think you’d lay here undisturbed until they came back to set all things right? Did you think you’d ride at the right hand of Bema?” He squeezed and squeezed, and the brittle bones began to crack. “You were nothing. He never even knew your name. You are nothing now and you were nothing in death.” He squeezed more and the skull burst into myriad shards of bone. Frost inhaled the stale grave air and felt invigorated. He took one of the thigh bones and placed it in the folds of his cloak. Strength began to return to him; he felt the way he had when he drew the dagger across those Rohirrim’s throats. Ecstatic with rage, Frost began smashing the bones, cracking and splintering them until there was naught left but dust. His breath was ragged and uneven, drool dripped from his chin as howled like a wolf. “I am the Son of the Morning! I am the Anathema of Light! I am the Child of Black Stars. YOU. ARE. NOTHING!” Where the bones had once lain peacefully, he drew a rudimentary crown, the crown resembling his master, his lord, the Witch-King. “May the Ice be cold, and the Iron be cruel.” Life surged into him again, he breathed deep and he howled again, filling the empty, silent air with ravening, rapacious madness.

He returned to the broken fortress, where both Arioch and Hrafnhildr were waiting. “Well,” he said, “What do we do next?”


OOC: (*lyrics taken from Borknagar’s “Voices”, ** lyrics adapted from Behemoth’s “Messe Noire”)


NPF edit: *Macklemore's Glorious begins playing in the distance*
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

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The Ettenmoors

(Private with Frost and Tara)

Of course his first thought was to mouth the name she had denied him permission to use. She wondered how he would react if she should call him by his unchosen name- but this would lead to question she did not wish to answer, and so Hrafnhildr held back the barb. He stared at her, and she stared back, impassive in his searching gaze. Arioch explained the source of Frost’s ill countenance, and she could not restrain a snort. Again she held back any cutting remarks and rather watched as he attempted to dismount his horse, and whatever physical calamity he was suffering gripped him, causing the horse to rear and the man to crash to the ground like an unschooled child. Her eyes had flicked sharply to follow his progress, but Hrafnhildr remained still. And silent, as Frost demanded to know if there were any sites nearby he might defile for his own selfish purposes. Arioch was no more forthcoming than she at first, but when Frost produced the dagger, both of their attentions sharpened. The weapon was indeed a twin of that which Hrafnhildr herself had seen on the hip of the Delgaran in Carn Dûm- but naked, it seemed alive in the man’s hand, as if calling out in thirst. Frost had whetted its appetite, and the deceptively jeweled thing was thirsty.

Swiftly however, Arioch’s mood soured. He threw down Frost’s sword and the man himself returned to the ground, howling with pain and clutching his festering wound. Still he insisted, and the vampire relented, pointing Frost in the direction of an ancient tomb nearby. He was gone without a word, and Hrafnhildr returned her attention to Arioch. “No,” she replied; Arioch’s lover was known to her, but had not shown herself since Hrafnhildr had taken up residence in the ruin. She folded her arms and waited in silence. If the vampire was after payment, he would have to take it up with the Delgaran. It was no business of hers. The rain pattered on the hood of her gut parka, dripping from the branches of nearby trees, from the manes and tails of the horses, and tan in rivulets down the decrepit gutters of the ruin around them. Beneath the parka and the fine wool of her tunic, a faint tingle traced patterns in Hrafnhildr’s skin. She turned her head to look at where Frost had gone, her eyes narrowing fractionally. She continued to watch the empty edge of the forest without expression, until the faint echo of a human howl reached them above the sound of the rain. With a soft noise of dissent through her nose, Hrafnhildr looked away. The tingling, which had intensified over the time she waited, began to fade, and had gone entirely by the time Frost returned to the ruin.

As if in answer to his question, the breathless rush of vast dark wings announced the arrival of Keziah, come silently on the rainy winds to this derelict place. So swift was her descent that she might have sprung up from the ground rather than the air, the massive burgundy-black wings that wrapped her body as she landed folding back and away to reveal the column of vampiric woman. Warped by the fell power which had transformed her ancestors and imbued itself in her, Keziah stood nearly as tall as Arioch, and where one might have expected to see whites in the eyes, hers were bloody-crimson, surrounding the pales of irises. Her hair, which seemed to have landed slightly later than the rest of her, settled about her in a thick black wave, seemingly untouched by the rain, and here and there glimmering with an echo of her wings’ hue. Keziah turned, an unnatural movement led by her chin and seeming to wrap around her body in a spiral until it reached her feet, and settled her gaze upon Arioch. “My love,” she greeted him, her voice like the rustling of pearls, “It is time, is it not?”
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The Ettenmoors
(Private with Moriel and Tara)

He sat atop his black destrier who stamped at the ground impatiently. They stood on a ridge overlooking the ruined fortress. He felt invigorated, energetic, fiery. Where before he’d felt sluggish and drained, as if his life essence was drifting away, now he felt full of life and vitality. He did not try to suppress the twisted grin that found its way onto his face. It was like he’d eaten a feast, a feast prepared for him alone. He was ready to ride out and destroy everything in his path. Verily, his hands twitched with anticipation. Even his horse, the nameless beast he’d ridden all the way from the White City, thrummed with energy. His vision had cleared. Instead of fog and vague senses of color and light, he saw things with a sharpness he had not experienced before he touched the dagger. He saw more shades of blue, grey, and brown. Textures were alive, he could almost feel them just as he looked at them. His periphery was wider too. Atop the ridge he could see far, far beyond him. Looking straight at the ruins, he could make out, just in the corner of his eye, the trail he’d made to the desecrated tomb. His senses of hearing and smell were increased too, he could smell the rain, the crisp, clean, icy sensation on the tip of his taste buds.

He forced himself, and his horse, to remain still. He watched the fortress as the rains continued to come down. The drizzle had slowly given way to sheets of rain and sleet. The air was lethargic. His breath was a great white plume of smoke that swirled with the rain. He watched it rise, stretch out, and form the silhouette of a ghostly spider. He exhaled again; the fog wrapped around the spider like a web. A sourceless, directionless light backlit his creation as it expanded and expanded, finally dissolving a moment later. “May the ice be cold and the iron be cruel,” he whispered.

The Númenórean chuckled grimly and turned back to the broken fortress. He didn’t know what it was about the place, shattered, decrepit, and abandoned, but he liked it. The towers were long crumbled, and the walls had collapsed in multiple places. Still, he could see the place restored in his mind’s eye, the towers restored and shrouded, its walls reinforced with ice and web. Having a tower this far north, a place between Angmar and Mordor that he could call solely his own, his domain, his realm. He gripped the reins tighter. Being this far north again awoke something in him again. Something he thought long dead. A strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, a longing. Nostalgia? He inhaled the frozen air and felt the icy wind stab through his lungs like a frozen knife. It felt good to feel that cold again. He missed it. He missed Iduna. But he was never getting her back. She belonged to a past he could never return to, a life he could only live out in his imagination. The three of them. It would not have been an easy life, but it would have been worthwhile.

“Well,” he said, “What do we do next?”

He’d barely said the words when she appeared. Frost had not been unnerved many times in his life. He could count on a single hand how many instances he’d been worried about his survival. The instant she appeared, a coiling, swirling mass of black and crimson. She was a sanguine whirlwind. She was taller, taller than him. She was a spike of black energy, the air sizzled and sparked with necrotic energies. If Arioch was the picture of hedonism and decadence, she was the picture of feral vitality, a huntress in her apex form. Frost had heard rumors about her. Tales whispered in brothels from men who claimed to have spent an evening with her. He had known they were lies then, he confirmed it now. This creature, Keziah, would have torn through them and eaten them screaming. The horse whinnied nervously and tired to step back. A swift, carefully aimed boot and a strong hand on the rein were the only things keeping the beast from bolting. Frost did not blame it. They were a terrifying, unearthly pair, these vampires. What was she doing here? There was an itch in the back of his mind, like the tingling of a strand of web. He looked up in the sky. The sun had not gone down yet, but the sky was rapidly darkening. The darkness was coming sooner than it should have. Something monumental was about to happen here. Frost tightening his grip.


-- * -- * --

The vampire smiled, his mouth twisting into something animalistic, and hungry. She had arrived. The air was alight with her power and energy. Instinctively, he moved closer, his energy and power craving hers, craving wholeness. “It is time indeed,” his voice was like a roar contained within the bounds of a whisper. He took her hand, pale but alive with an infernal heat, and kissed it. His black wings spread out about them, wrapping and encapsulating the two of them within their own world. The world outside, the rains, the horses, the humans, they were all of utter insignificance now. As it had for nigh on two thousand years that they had met, drawn together by the scent of slaughter to indulge in their instinctual feasting. They had devoured a countryside that night, and then each other.

“The stars and planets have come ‘round again to that moment when we met all those years ago. The alignment has perfected itself.”

Arioch furled his wings, vast black pits of woven midnight dissipated and vanished like fog before the morning sun. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from Keziah, her eyes as enrapturing, hypnotic, and seductive as they had been that night. He turned and moved so that he stood next to Keziah, facing both humans. He looked from Frost, his vitality seemingly restored, and Hrafnhildr, a statue of shimmering ice. “You are two are to be witnesses to the events of this night. It will be the greatest honor of your brief, mayfly lives, and the greatest of responsibilities. Two thousand years ago, I met this woman, this fallen plague angel. I knew then I would claim her as mine, as she claimed me that night. The stars have wheeled and whirled above us ever since, dancing and skittering until they finally reach their starting positions again. It is on this night, in this place, the ceremony must take place.” He took a step forward, his hard, yellow gaze never leaving Frost’s, he assumed Keziah’s was locked on Hrafnhildr. The man, still ahorse, did not move. “It is our custom that we wait until the stars and planets realign to the position of our first meeting. We are not like the virtuous elves,” he spat the mocking words, his yellow eyes becoming colder and hungrier, “we do not rush into monogamous unions. Such things are anathema to us, creatures of passion hedonism. We delight for aeons in the company of others whilst holding that one glorious exemplar of the hunt, we set the world aflame and look to force our vision upon it. We do not wish to merely vanish into the trees or live under rocks like the ‘First Born’, the children of stars. We are revelers and revelators.” The Númenórean’s horse stamped nervously and took a step back as the vampire lunged forward, his form shifting from one place to another rather than conventional movement and grabbed the reins from the human, yanking them from his hands. “You, Frost of House Nûlukhô, will be the Challenger.” He waited a heartbeat to see if there was a hint of recognition on the Númenórean’s face, there was not so he continued, his grasp firm on the horse. “The so-called ‘Worst Man’. It will be your duty to battle me for the hand of Keziah.” There was a look of shock in the ocean blue eyes. Arioch smiled viciously. “Should you be victorious and slay me, then she is yours to attempt to claim. However, if I win, then our union will suffer no challenges from that moment to the moment of our utter dissolution.” He stated the terms in such a way that did not brook argument or bargaining, did not allow the human to wiggle out or refuse. If he did not, then Arioch would force him. He looked at the man’s sword, strapped to his hip. “And you must convince my bride to be,” he broke the intensity of his gaze to turn back to Keziah, his eyes drinking in her silhouette like a ravenous wolf, “or she will drink away that life you hold with such an iron grasp.”

He took a step back, releasing the horse. Keziah would explain the part Hrafnhildr was to play in this performance. There was still one more player that needed to arrive to play her part: his stubborn, rage-filled familiar, Belisaria.

Belisaria! Belisaria! It is time for you to have fulfilled your duty. You are called to me now, with the rings I charged you with procuring from the Tingdain in the tree light infested city of Imladris. Come to me, I command you. Belisaria! Arrive and attend to your mistress.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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Storm Crows
The Ettenmoors
(Private with Moriel and Frost)

The troll-fells passed beneath her, mounds of earth rising and falling in wan hues which matched the gravelly skin of the trolls who had once inhabited those lands. Belisaria had flown above and even among them in those times, harassing them by diving at their eyes and scraping at their stony flesh. Those had been happier days than this one. She could feel his presence nearby; the reprieve she had been granted when he had been sent south ended sharply with a sudden tightness in her chest, as if his fist were gripping her little heart in an act of coercion.

She opened her mouth and hissed in his direction. While their connection had surged painfully back to the fore of her awareness, she was bound south - away from him, for now - on an errand.

Belisaria had been born in ancient days, meant to roam freely and far, for the whole of her short life. He had taken even death from her. But his grip upon her was not so complete that she could not indulge in spiteful detours as she fluttered south to complete her task. She saw in her mind’s eye the shape of a hawk drifting serenely upon a thermal updraft, and she veered off course to meet it midair. Although the hawk was the swifter of the two and easily matched her unnaturally large wingspan, Belisaria was strong enough to overpower it. She also possessed a keen intelligence, another unwanted gift from her master. She attacked from behind, sinking her claws into its back and initiating a downward spiral of loose feathers and blood and shrieks from both hawk and bat. She channeled her rage into a frenetic effort to strip away the hawk’s wing and tail feathers. She clicked and hissed as they tumbled, then opened her wings wide at the last moment to take to the air again as it plummeted, unconscious, to the ground like a stone. She ate well and left behind a shredded mess of entrails for some unhappy traveler to discover. It would do for now.

She came upon the valley of elves at dusk and clicked her disgust at the lights shining brightly below her. The building to which she was bound was set apart from the rest, which meant fewer eyes and fewer fires glowing up at her. Her every instinct strained against the task she had been set, but still she descended toward the lone building, easily spotted from above by the plumes of smoke rising from tall chimneys. A forge. She dove swiftly and fluttered through an open window. How careless and arrogant of these elves, to leave their treasures exposed and vulnerable. She felt her master’s smug satisfaction rising within her when she hooked her claws through two large, golden rings. They were not trivial burdens, either; both were set with gems which sparkled in the firelight and whose light made Belisaria wince. As swiftly as she’d come, she left through the open window. No one would know what had become of the rings.

The journey north held fewer chances for sport, lest she lose one or both of the rings in the wild. That did not preclude her from considering dropping them into a large ravine which yawned below her. They could tumble downward, into the river which had carved away the stone, and out to sea. Belisaria herself could do so and end her suffering. But a will that was not her own prevented her from making the dive and sent her hurtling northward again as fast as her wings could carry her.

The grip on her heart intensified as she neared the spot where Arioch stood. His thought rang clearly in her mind, and she flailed momentarily in the rain which had begun to pour, soaking her to the bone and causing the rings to slip in her grasp.

Belisaria! Belisaria! It is time for you to have fulfilled your duty. You are called to me now, with the rings I charged you with procuring from the Tingdain in the tree light infested city of Imladris. Come to me, I command you. Belisaria! Arrive and attend to your mistress.

Despite the pain of her muscles beginning to seize with the strain, she clenched her grip around the rings and flew on, drawn to him like iron to a lodestone. Four figures - why four? - stood below her. Her master, a new mistress, and two unknown to her. She had arrived. She released the rings at last, letting them tumble through the rain to Arioch, before gliding down to settle reluctantly upon his shoulder.

My task is done.
she/her | Esta tierra no es mía, soy de la nocheósfera.

Balrog
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Into the Unknown
(Private with Moriel)

She was having trouble keeping her eyes open. The sun was barely at its zenith, just touching the midpoint. They’d been riding since pre-dawn though, pushing through field and forest, over rills and gullies, along dry riverbeds and vales. She never imagined a world so large. The world had always been small to her, either existing within the narrow confines of her terrestrial reality, limited to the farms and homesteads and horses, or within the past, in stories of yonder years and days gone by. The first day after they set out from Edoras she’d burst into tears, unable to comprehend or process the exponential expansion of her world. She was ready for such things as imagination transmuting into reality. Lucky for her companion, her tears were not tears of grief, uncertainty, or uncontrolled anguish, they were tears of joy, of introductions, of new life. They had to stop early that day. Soon after she started crying, she began to laugh. They stood at the edge of a valley, a verdant expanse that engulfed the horizons, tall grey mountains on either side of them, rising until their heads were lost amidst puffy white clouds. Birds sang, hundreds of them, dozens of species, filling the air with a wild natural symphony. In the distance, along the rim of the valley she saw a tiny, crystal blue waterfall. Nothing like this should exist. Places like this should only exist in stories. But it was real. It was all real! She had never seen anything like this before. Even in her mind’s eye when reading stories of ancient heroes and impossible quests, she’d never been able to picture something so, so perfect. Exuberant nature, though, would not be denied a place within her pools of memory. It refused subtlety, revealing itself in wild, absurd grandiosity. What did it mean, that such places could exist, places out of imagination? Walpurga didn’t know. She’d stared, standing at the lip of the valley, too dumbstruck to move, to think, to process. The only proper response to such a bending and stretching was to cry, to laugh.

Kamion, to his everlasting credit, gave her the space she needed. He’d seen it all before of course, had likely seen this valley, this sight a hundred times by now. Was the surreal beauty lost on him yet? She couldn’t figure him out. She’d been trying for days now. Had been since he’d helped her escape Edoras and all its sour memories. He was a good man, that much she knew. But there was more to him, had to be. There was no such thing as just a good man. He had to have depths. Did he know he had depths? He was so stoic, so duty bound, she wasn’t sure if he did.

He rode ahead of her, a mountain of a man on a mountain of a horse. He kept a quick but not hurried pace. She rubbed her eyes, stifling a yawn. Her vision blurred. A squeak from her side brought her attention from the dusty, well-trod road to her side, to the pack she kept slung across her shoulder. Another squeak, and then a third. Walpurga grinned and opened the flap, keeping her balance on Svanhildr by squeezing her legs. Out popped a tiny fluff ball, black and white. Sally, the middle child of her baby skunks squeaked, mewed, and skittered up her shoulder, nestling in the spot where shoulder met neck. It was her favorite spot. Ecthelion, the male, and the oldest, came out next. He was larger than his sister. He took his place on her lap, resting his tiny head on the head of the stirrup. Last, came little Pinig, the runt of the litter. She might have been the smallest, but she had the fiercest attitude. She took her spot on Walpurga’s hip. It was a precarious position but she refused to be moved, squeaking in protestation every time Walpurga had tried to move her to a spot that would have been more comfortable for both of them. In the end, the battle of wills was won by the tiniest, floofiest creature Walpurga had ever seen.

When they’d set out, none of the skunks had names. She’d had them for weeks, had tried a half dozen names but none of them were right, none of them fit. Sally was the first to get a name. Kamion asked her name (after recovering from the shock of seeing a trio of skunklings pour like water out of their mother’s pouch) and immediately suggested Sally after learning they still had no names. The skunk that would become Sally chirped her agreement and that was the end of the debate. That night, around a fire, Kamion, after a dozen questions from Walpurga, told a partial telling of the Fall of Gondolin. When he was done, Walpurga decided that the boy ought to be named Ecthelion after the great elven hero. Immediately upon receiving his name, Ecthelion skuttled to the fire and began digging, throwing enough dirt to put the fire out in a flash. “Appropriately named, I’d say,” Kamion had said, picking up Ecthelion and rebuilding the fire. The last, the tiniest, hissed and whined, sensing that she was the last without a name. “Pinig,” he suggested, “Sindarin for Little One.” And just like that, all three of her skunk babies had names at last.

Brocktree, the badger cub she’d rescued on her first, and only, mission with the Rohan Cavalry, claimed Kamion as his throne, often climbing up on his shoulder to watch the horizon. They made a strange troupe: two humans, a horse, a pony, three skunks, and a badger. Yet, as she reflected, there was no other way it could have come to pass.

Walpurga was grateful for the easy pace. Svanhildr was as well, she suspected. The unfamiliar territory, at times, felt like it would overwhelm and consume her. The world was bigger, far bigger than she’d imagined possible. Each day the horizon was further and further away. The road was an endless, meandering serpent without head or tail, an ouroboros. As awestruck and full of wanderlust as she was, there was a nagging feeling of smallness in her mind, the way a leaf must feel being swept along in a great river. It was exhilarating and wonderful, but it was also terrifying. There was never any telling what might lie around the next bend or beyond the next hill. But Kamion never worried, and she took comfort in that. She watched him like a hawk, the easy way he moved, graceful as flowing water, and did her best to emulate him. She was a gawky, awkward girl but with more than a little concentration and focus, she found that she could ride Svanhildr, her little feral pony almost as well and easy as he rode his giant equine beast. She watched how he examined trails, watched the horizons, observed the skies. A hundred questions filled her mind, wanting to burst from her lips like a torrent, but more often than not she stayed silent, doing her best to learn by observing. There was still a lingering doubt in her mind, a doubt of who and what he was. She knew many things he was not, but there were many gaps to be filled. Yet she had no idea how to ask him, she’d never had any precedent on how to ask questions. Their roles were still undefined and nebulous. Neither of them seemed able or willing to break the unspoken barrier of definition that sat between them.

Despite leaving with a clear conscience, the young Rohir often looked back those first few days, back to the silhouette of Edoras. She didn’t regret leaving the city, not one bit. She knew she’d made the right choice to leave. She’d been afraid to do it, been so scared that she’d be trapped forever if she didn’t, but now that she had, she couldn’t help but wonder at the circumstances. Pure happenstance, pure chance. That was all that had freed her from the bonds of that city, of that society. How could something some random change her life so profoundly? If it had not been Kamion, would it have been someone else? Would she have finally found the courage on her own? How long would she have waited? She looked back at times, scared that she might see that Marshal riding them down, wielding sword and reprimand, admonishing Walpurga, calling her a coward and a traitor to her oath. But she wasn’t even in Edoras when Walpurga and Kamion had left. She had sent Walpurga a “gift” the day before she left: two of the three wolf skins they’d killed on the mission they’d been paired together. Walpurga couldn’t believe the audacity of the Marshal. She’d chastised Walpurga after the fight, called her thoughtless and foolhardy, as if she were her mother. The Marshal was a strange woman who often looked at Walpurga when she thought she wasn’t looking in the strangest, most uncomfortable ways, like she was assessing her, inspecting her. The gift was an insult, a reminder that Walpurga wasn’t in control of her own fate. But she rejected that. She gave the wolfskins to the innkeeper and her husband, regifting an insult to her agency and turning it into something good. It felt right.

They were on the road to a place called Tharbad, a ruined settlement that had once been a thriving city of the Númenóreans in the old days. Every time Kamion mentioned the Númenóreans, Walpurga sensed something, not from the Dúnedain’s words themselves but images they provoked. She couldn’t pin down exactly what the feeling was though. Each time she thought she could put a name it, it escaped and flittered about her before vanishing. Her father. It must have been. From the bare descriptions she wrung from her mother, the appearance of Kamion and his description of the ancient, sunken island’s people, she surmised he must be from that stock. But the only folk that still called themselves Númenóreans were down in Umbar, and she’d heard and read enough stories to know that poking around that particular cave would be a bad idea. Still, seeing a ruin that she could claim a connection to would be astounding. There was certainly going to be a gloom about it, a sadness, but it was sadness she knew she needed to feel, to understand. If she was going to find her place in this every expanding, infinite world, she needed to understand that kind of sorrow. She had been so consumed and trapped with her own grief and longing that she had not been able to seek out other emotions or perspectives. She would do that on this journey with Kamion.

As Kamion explained it, beyond Tharbad there was a bridge over the River Gwathló, Greyflood. She had vague ideas from stories she’d heard and books she’d read about the river, but it had never been within her grasp. It was the furthest place in her world she felt like she had a connection to. Cities like Minas Tirith or the Grey Havens were of mythical status, existing in a place both real and unreal, but the Greyflood was real, just on the boundary of her imagination.

They would be within sight of the abandoned settlement by evening at their current pace. Walpurga itched to go faster, to reach their destination faster. She very nearly thrummed with nervous energy now, yet her eyes were still heavy. She existed in that moment in a place in the middle of both anticipation and exhaustion. Her skunks could feel her inner turmoil. Ecthelion began to paw at her, making biscuits the way kittens often would; Sally changed her sleeping position at least a dozen times in half an hour, and little Pinig chirped an endless, no doubt enthralling story. They could all sense that something big was on the horizon, just below the next hill. Kamion, from Walpurga’s vantage point, didn’t have the same anxious anticipation. He was as outwardly stoic, logical, and rational as he had always been.

“How long ‘til we can see the ruins?” she finally asked, unable to maintain the pretense of composure any longer. She smiled, her deep ocean blue eyes sparkling in the sun.
Last edited by Akhenanat on Sat Mar 27, 2021 9:49 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Strange Fruit got holes in the flesh but it ain't gonn' spoil cause it never was fresh

Black Númenórean
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Into the Unknown
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Private with Frost)

When the trio of skunklets had appeared from Walpurga’s bag, Kamion had done his very best not to look utterly flabbergasted. Skunks?! Who on earth kept skunks as pets? Apparently Walpurga- and as he looked at her earnest, anxious face, he couldn’t think of any way to tell her she couldn’t bring them. Instead, he had joked that she’d have to make sure they, too, gathered their share of the firewood. While he had been occupied with the revelation of the skunks, another creature had emerged from the bag, unnoticed by the Dúnadan until it began to climb up his leg: a baby badger, all soft-striped fur and shining black eyes, its nose twitching curiously. At that point there was nothing he could do but laugh, detach the badger from his trouser leg, and suggest that they get on their way. So they had, departing from Edoras without fanfare as dawn began to creep over the city, and when they had crested a rise on the North-South Road some time later to overlook the valely beyond, Kamion brought Faran to a halt. He had given vent to a deep, appreciative sight of the valley beyond, a sight that never got old, and a clear indication that Rohan was fading behind them. Walpurga had burst into tears, followed by gales of laughter. Though her reaction was more extreme than he had expected, Kamion wasn’t completely surprised. The wide world was an overwhelming place, even when it was with beauty, and he couldn’t imagine what this young woman was feeling seeing it for the first time.

He had wanted to- not comfort her, for her outburst was not of pain, but to offer her whatever support she might need. For the moment, his instinct was to simply allow her whatever time or space she needed to react to this new world, without judgement. He was in no rush. That first night around the fire had been eventful, with the exercise of his storytelling skills and the naming of the other two skunks. The full complement of Ecthelion, Sally, and Pinig, somehow seemed pleased with their names, and that was also the first time Brocktree had clambered up Kamion’s back to perch upon his shoulder. It was a broad platform for the young badger, and the Dúnadan found that his soft, musky scent was not at all unpleasant. With a tickle of his finger under Brocktree’s chin and the feeding of a bit here and there of his dinner to the badger, their friendship was quickly cemented. Despite the relative ease of that first day, the animals seemed to be settling in more quickly than the people. The next few days were not exactly uncomfortable, but there was that invisible barrier that always exists between people of new acquaintance, and they had not had the leisure to get to know one another and break it down before leaping into a scenario where they must trust each other, and where he must be responsible for her safety. Kamion did his best to behave normally, and to not interrogate his companion, though he had many questions about how she had come to find herself in such a situation.

These were the easy days of the journey, and for the most part he held Faran to a companionable stroll. Svanhildr, as Walpurga’s pony was called, was much smaller than the ill-tempered gelding and, he suspected, no more used to long journeys than her mistress. Though Faran could be incomparably lazy when he felt like it, he at first expressed his resentment of the slow pace with disgruntled whisking of his tail and frequent rumblings of complaint. But eventually he seemed to realize the purpose and accept it grudgingly, even going so far as to sleep near Svanhildr when they stopped for the night. Today, they were approaching Tharbad, and the border into the north that was Gwathló, and with them, the end of the easy peaceful days. Of course, there was no guarantee that they would have anything but an easy time of it on the remainder of the journey, but the difficult river crossing was symbolic of the increased danger of the lands they would be passing into. Kamion glanced back at Walpurga as they rode, catching her staring off into the distance. Quickly he looked ahead again. Her boundless amazement delighted the Dúnadan, but his brow furrowed as he thought. Walpurga had been -if short lived- a member of the cavalry, and yet she had brought no weapon with her, not even a knife. Kamion was confident in his ability to protect her should the need arise, and he had escorted the defenselenss before, but he had a feeling she was not one of those. Perhaps tonight he would make it his goal to find out the extent of her training. Part of Faran’s burden as they journeyed north was a bundle of swords to be delivered to Kamion’s northern kin, and if Walpurga was comfortable with one in her hand, Kamion would be happier. Brocktree chittered in his ear, and the Dúnadan laughed, reaching up one finger to scratch the badger beneath his chin.

“Not paying enough attention to you, eh?” Brocktree chirped and flattened himself on Kamion’s shoulder, his snout pointing forward to watch the road ahead. Aside from Faran and his predecessors, who could hardly be called pets in the frist place, Kamion had never been one to keep a pet. And Brocktree was not his of course, but he could feel himself becoming quite fond of the odd creature already. They had begun a long climb, not steep, but a steadily upward sloping of the road that carried on for miles, and Faran leaned into it with a will, pulling further ahead from Svanhildr. But when Walpurga called out from behind them, Kamion shifted in his seat and Faran sighed, but obeyed, slackening his pace to allow the pony and its mistress to catch up. Kamion looked down at her and smiled back- he would have done anyway, but her eagerness was infectious, and his eyes crinkled deeply. “Not long now! We should be able to catch a glimpse of them from the top of this hill.” Together they reached the end of the climb at last, and Kamion brought Faran to a halt.

“There,” he said, leaning slightly and pointing to what from this distance were grey smudges on the horizon, “It’s closer than it looks, but there’s bound to be some mist between here and there.” It had been over a hundred years since Tharbad had been ruined, but Kamion still felt a strange pang every time he drew near it. “I wish I could have seen it in its prime,” he confessed aloud to Walpurga, “My father tells such stories of what Tharbad used to look like before the Fell Winter. Even then it was nothing compared to what it had been, but the shapes were at least the same, and so he says, you could imagine the Númenóreans of old here at their shipyards, and the scenes of victory after the Battle of the Gwathló.” His eyes brightened as he looked upon the land before them and recalled his study of the battle. “From there,” Kamion pointed to the southwest, where the mouth of the Gwathló would lie, “king Tar-Minastir sent his fleet. And there,” he pointed to the north, “Gil-galad the High King came with his elves and the Númenóreans who rode with them. And both forces fell upon Sauron there at Tharbad, and routed him,” he brought his hands together, pointing toward the ruined city. He could almost hear the sounds of battle, and see the ghostly hosts of elves and the Men who were his ancestors. Smiling at his fancy, Kamion looked back at Walpurga, and now his voice was serious.

“From here, the road grows rougher and more dangerous, both in itself and what we may meet along the way. The crossing at Tharbad is treacherous, but will save us several days of travel if we choose to take it, rather than going around to the next ford. I’m relying on you to tell me when we get there if you think you and Svanhildr can handle the crossing. Don’t answer now before you’ve seen it. Come,” his tone lightened and he winked, taking up the reins again, “would you care to pick up the pace?”
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Evil is a lifestyle | she/her

Steward of Gondor
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Attubel - Being accosted by bandits
On the road from Forsaken Inn, heading toward Bree

An owl hooted in the distance, startling Bel. She glanced around, trying not to feel too nervous. Dusk had begun to settle around her some time ago, and the light was failing much faster than she would have liked. The girl felt nervous as she heard various creatures in the forest, some she recognized, others she did not. Her horse, seemed a little nervous as well. Most likely, he was nervous because Bel was nervous. She patted his neck lightly, speaking softly to calm him. The girl began, for the first time, to question the wisdom of her impulsive choice to set out on her own, but it had been necessary, or at least she felt that it had, when she left the inn. She might have been able to find someone else to go, but no one had readily volunteered. And if no men would go, then that left only a woman.

And she was the only one, it seemed, who cared enough to take it upon herself to go. So here she was, glancing around nervously as the night settled around her, dusk fading into darkness around the forest. Should she stop somewhere? Or should she keep going? The horse couldn't continue through the night, of course, even if Bel could, but was it safe to stop? She hadn't exactly planned that far ahead, and had not brought a bedroll or anything. She'd barely taken the time to grab any food.

The conversation between herself and Gladhron replayed in her head as she peered down the darkening path, feeling uneasy about continuing, but unsure about stopping.


"We are far from any town," Gladhron had pointed out to her. "Can you not tend to him yourself?"

"He is badly wounded." Bel explained. " I can do nought but clean and wrap the wounds. He is in need of a healer if he is to recover properly." Bel had told him, deeply concerned about the wounded young man lying unconscious before her.

"But where will you find a healer? There is nought but this inn for at least a days' journey. You know that as well as I." Gladhron frowned, pressing a damp cloth to his bleeding head wound as she worked on cleaning his brother's more serious wounds.

Bel paused to think on the matter. “I have heard rumors of a foreign healer who travels from village to village, but I haven’t any idea where he might be at this time,” She answered wishfully, with a sigh. If only that foreign healer would show up right about now, that would help matters tremendously. But the odds of that happening were probably not high, unfortunately. "The nearest healer of which I know dwells in the Chetwood forest, near Archet. I've been there once before, and I believe I can find the way again." She added softly.

Gladhron frowned deeper. "Nay, I cannot allow you to go." He said, sounding quite surprised. "That is far too dangerous a journey for a lady to undertake."

Bel looked up and frowned at him, annoyed that he would speak as if she was completely helpless, simply due to being a woman. "I have made the trip before." She informed him, leaving out that she'd had company, then. "You certainly aren't fit for such a journey; you're like to pass out the moment you try to stand. And anyway, I know the way; do you?" Glancing at him, she noticed he was barely touching the wound with the cloth, and added, "Put a little more pressure on that gash, you need to stop the bleeding. Yes, that's better."

“No,” Gladhron answered, frowning.

“And have you ever been to Bree or Archet before?”

“No…well not in many years.” He answered, again looking unhappy to have to give that answer.

“Well, I have.” Bel replied, perhaps with a bit of self-satisfaction. “Therefore, I’m not as likely to get lost on the way.”


Feeling a bit sickened by the wound before her, Bel had to force herself to turn back to the..somewhat horrifying task of cleaning the dirt and rocks and things from Gwestion's leg, where the bone protruded through his skin. It was all she could do to keep working, reminding herself it would be worse for him if this stuff remained in there. She did her best to clean all of that out, fearing it may become infected if she didn't clean it properly, then worked at bandaging it as best she could, thinking it might at least slow the bleeding, even if she didn’t know how to put his leg right. The bone was sticking out jaggedly, and it was difficult for her to see that, but she had heard before that in such a case, one should just bandage the wound in such a way that the protruding thing wouldn't be as able to move around. She tried to do that, unsure of anything else that she could do for him at this time.

"I still refuse to allow you to go." Gladhron protested. "The road is perilous, what parts of it are still maintained, and wrought with bandits and orcs, and possibly wolves. Even seasoned warriors are likely to run into trouble; what hope do you think you would have?" He posed the question like a challenge, at least to Bel’s ears. "Besides, I do know the healer you speak of," He realized, a little slow at putting it together.

Silently, Bel proceeded to wrap Gwestion's wound, to keep it as clean as possible, not giving him an answer to that. Inside, she was angry at Gladhron's words, even if she knew he was right. Still, someone must bring a healer! What was even more frustrating is that if they had come one day sooner, Mr Greylake would have been able to do it, as he was on his way to Bree anyway. But he was gone, and Gladhron wasn't fit for the journey. After doing all she could for Gwestion, she moved without a word to tend to Gladhron's wounds.

"Do you truly intend to go?" He asked, wincing slightly as she dabbed at his bleeding forehead.

"If I cannot find anyone else to go, then what other choice is there?" She asked, trying her best to seem calm, though she was feeling quite frantic and desperate, inwardly. "You must rest, and Mr Greylake is away at the moment... Connor, the stableman isn't likely to go..." She sighed, wishing... but there was no use in wishing for things she couldn’t have. "I shall try to find another to go in my place, but if I cannot, then I will."

Gladhron sighed, pausing for a moment as he looked over at Gwestion. "He would never forgive me if I allow you to venture off on your own. At least give me the night to rest, and I shall join you."

Bel glanced at him. She had never actually seen Gladhron look so serious as he did then. She paused and thought about that for a moment, feeling a little surge of happiness to hear him say what he’d said... did that mean Gwestion cared about her more than he let on? She tried to focus on the matter at hand; she knew that in Gladhron's current condition, he was more likely to slow her down, than be of any help.

“You don’t look very well, yourself, Gladhron.” She pointed out, frowning, a bit worried for him as well.

"That certainly boosts my self-confidence,” He replied wryly with a slight smile. "I assure you I'm fine, I only need a few hour's sleep," he insisted.

Bel managed a tiny smile back. Perhaps he was not so badly hurt as she had thought, if he was making jokes and such.

"Give me time to rest, and I shall escort you to Ms Moss," He added when she still didn't answer. “Promise you will not leave without letting me know.” He insisted.

Bel hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. I will delay until morning, and wake you before I set out, unless, of course, I find another to go in my stead." She promised. "I shall not leave without telling you first."



And she hadn't... not exactly. But Gladhron had been unwakeable in the morning, which worried Bel all the more and confirmed to her that it was imperative that they had a healer tend to them as soon as possible. His head wound must have been more serious than she thought, and he could be dying for all she knew. She had left a note to let him know she’d had to leave, and then asked the innkeeper's wife to look after the brothers in her absence. Then, saddling her horse, she had been confronted by the inn's stable hand.

"Where are you going?" Connor asked, frowning as she tightened the cinch on her saddle. Bel glanced up and sighed. "You refused to go to Archet and get the healer. So I am going, instead."

"But you can't." He told her, frowning. "Put that horse away, you've got no call to go traipsing off into the wild, getting yourself killed or worse...least of all for the likes of a couple of rangers." He scowled.

Bel's temper flared, and she put her hands on her hips. He was not only insulting Gladhron and Gwestion, but all other rangers...her father included. She would not stand for that. "Those rangers," She retorted, "once saved our lives, and this inn. Or had you forgotten about that?" Irritated, she swung herself up into the saddle, her cloak swirling around her, settling gracefully over the horse's hindquarters. "And furthermore, I would thank you not to speak ill of the man I love." She added, surprising herself for admitting it so openly. Feeling her face begin to flush, she kicked the horse's sides lightly and he took off swiftly before the stableman had a chance to respond.


Now, a day into her journey, the sun had set and she was growing nervous. Having set out early this morning, Bel had ridden for hours now, and she was sure that something was not quite right. Shouldn’t she would have been there by now? Had she taken a wrong turn somewhere? Looking around nervously, she wondered how she could have gone off course. The road was right here before her. But then, there had been several places along the way where the road was in such disrepair that she hadn’t been sure where the road was, exactly. Then there was that spot a while back where the road had been so overgrown, she’d had to leave it and pick a way around it. Perhaps, when she found her way back to the road, she had ended up on the wrong road? Was there more than one? She began to worry about that possibility now. Suppose she was heading in the wrong direction?

On top of the worry that she might be lost, Bel couldn’t help thinking about the dangers Gladhron had tried to warn her about. She had brought her father's sword, at least, but did she know how to use it? Not one bit. Hopefully it would be enough, just having it. Remembering the wolves that had attacked the inn the day she first met Gwestion, however, Bel felt a knot tightening in her stomach, wondering if there were any of those lurking around. She urged her horse to go a little faster, thinking of Gwestion, lying there wounded, desperately needing a healer.

Suddenly, a different kind of wolf appeared. A man emerged out of the darkness, grabbing her horse's halter as he stopped her. "Well, this is a treat, isn't it?" He grinned up at Bel.

She gasped, startled.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing out here? All alone, are you?" He grinned wider.

Bel tried to pull her horse away from him. "Who are you? Let go of my horse, else I shall be forced to run you down." She threatened, trying to hide her fright with anger. The man laughed, however, unworried by her threat. "Run me down, huh? I think not. Come and join me, instead." He held up a hand as if to help her down.

Bel scowled and kicked the horse's sides to make him flee, but the man held his halter firmly. "Release my horse at once!" Bel demanded, her heart racing.

"My dear young lady, hasn't anyone warned you about the dangers of traveling alone?" The man inquired, a smirk playing on his face. He grabbed her leg and pulled, trying to get her off the horse.

"Take your hand off me!" Bel retorted, growing more alarmed. She kicked at him and managed to catch his jaw. Then, with only a little fumbling, she drew her father's sword from its scabbard and pointed it at him. It was far too long for her, and heavy, but she hoped she wouldn't be forced to try and fight. "Let me pass, or I shall-" Before she had to think up any sort of threat, Bel was surprised by a new set of hands grabbed around her waist from the other side, and snatched her out of the saddle. With a startled little scream, Bel fell back against a second man who had come up on her other side while she was distracted with the first man. A third stepped up quickly and grabbed the weapon from her hands before she knew what was happening.

"You were saying? Or... what?" The first laughed, approaching her with a smirk. "Did you really think to frighten me, girl?"

"Let me go!" Bel yelled, squirming frantically. Her horse fled a few paces away, startled by the noise and struggling near him.

"And leave you to wander into who knows what sort of danger? Not a chance, dear girl." The bandit snickered.

Desperate to get free from them, Bel rammed her elbow back into the ribs of the man holding her, and broke free. Before she'd gone more than a few steps, however, a fourth man caught her. Gripping her arm, he tried to kiss her, but she squirmed and ducked, avoiding the unwanted kiss though she couldn't get her arm out of his grip. Swinging her free hand at him, she caught his face with something between a slap and a punch. Angered, he shoved her away from him, holding his jaw in surprise. Bel stumbled backward, right into the arms of the first bandit who held her tightly.

"Feisty, isn't she?" He laughed.

"Let go of me!" Bel demanded, trying in vain to break free from him. "Let me go!" Why didn't she listen to Gladhron? Really, what was she thinking, running off on her own like this? She'd be no help to Gwestion if she was killed or taken captive, and things were looking quite hopeless for her right now…
Last edited by Rillewen on Thu Mar 07, 2024 9:51 am, edited 4 times in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

Steward of Gondor
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(A flashback post describing the events leading up to the previous post with Bel)


Gwestion
Somewhere in the wilds, within a day's ride from the Forsaken Inn


"We could spare an hour or two," Gladhron suggested with a grin to his brother. "It wouldn't take us very far off-course. Perhaps we might even stay until morning, and get a fresh start with daybreak."
"I said, no." Gwestion scowled, annoyed at Gladhron for his continual teasing. "There's no reason to. We'll continue on our way as planned."
"But it would be nice to stop at the inn for a while! Get a few drinks...have a nice hot meal... and it would give you a chance to see her." Gladhron grinned.
"Gladhron," Gwestion sighed, frustrated. "How many times must I tell you-"

He didn't get a chance to finish that sentence. Just at that moment, something crashed into him, knocking him off his horse, which whinnied in fright and bolted a ways off. Gwestion hit the ground, winded, and instinctively fought with his attacker before he even knew what was attacking him. By the dim light of dusk, he caught sight of the ugly face of an orc, and gritted his teeth as he drew his dagger, unable to do anything else for the moment. He heard Gladhron yell, and the sound of swords clashing, and guessed there were others. After plunging his dagger into the orc's exposed throat, Gwestion shoved the creature off of himself and scrambled to his feet, finding the area seemingly swarmed with orcs. At first glance, it looked like they were utterly surrounded. But as he parried a blow, and ducked another, Gwestion cast a swift glance around and soon realized there were fewer than he first thought. Still more than he'd like there to be, but with any luck, the two of them could manage. It was hard to be sure how many there were exactly, as they kept moving and attacking. Gladhron was surrounded, and Gwestion was trying to get to him, but there were three orcs coming at him now, and he didn't have room to draw his sword. He kicked one square in the chest, shoving the monstrous being back several steps, then switched his dagger to his left hand as his right drew his sword.

In moments, one of the orcs was slain, leaving only two more to contend with before he was free to aid Gladhron. Gwestion had no time to stop and count how many were surrounding his brother; all he could do was dispatch those troubling himself, and try to get to Gladhron before it proved too late. His sword flashed in the fading light, blocking and clanging against the orc's weapons. He caught an overhead attack on his own blade, spinning in place in a move that allowed him to then slash his blade across the orc's midsection. Acting swiftly, he then pivoted and swung the blade back the other way, upward, catching the other orc by surprise. It might have proved fatal, but the orc managed to block his attack, sneering as he drove Gwestion back with a series of vicious attacks. Moments later, the orc was joined by another, making it even tougher for Gwestion to find an opening to do anything but defend. He struggled to keep calm, knowing that if he panicked or became frantic, he might make mistakes which could be deadly. Some part of his mind worried about Gladhron, wondering why this other orc had left off from attacking him, but he couldn't take time to focus on that.

Leaping backward a step to avoid a stab, Gwestion saw another stab attempt coming immediately after, and swiftly sidestepped with a blocking move, his sword knocking the opponent's to one side. It then swung around in an arc to slash the orc across the back of his leg, then Gwestion turned to confront the other orc as it rushed at him. He thrust his dagger into the orc's throat before turning back to the other. He felt a sense of relief to see that his attack was successful, and now he was back down to only one foe. But this one was quite fierce as well, despite having a deep cut on the calf of his leg. As the orc advanced on him, Gwestion nearly stumbled over a fallen tree limb lying behind his feet. He took a slash from the orc's sword on his right arm before hastily knocking the blade away from himself, preventing it from being too deep of a cut. As the orc recovered and made to lunge forward, Gwestion used his dagger hand to knock the orc's sword to the side, and leveled his sword at its middle so that the orc's own forward motion caused it to be impaled.

Without wasting any more time, Gwestion hurried back along the ridge, toward where he has last seen his brother. The ridge, on his right, plunged steeply down a rock-filled ravine, ending with more rocks and boulders scattered along the bottom. Partway back to Gladhron, he was met by another orc which he had not seen due to the darkness in the forest to his left. Gwestion flung his sword up in a hasty block as the orc swung at him, parrying the blow by instinct more than anything. The force of the strike threw him to the side a couple of steps before he managed to regain his balance. His opponent swung a double-headed flail, striking the side of his knee. Gwestion stifled a yell of pain at the blow, and tried to block the next one. He was still standing, and although his knee hurt, he didn't think it was wounded too seriously.

The third swing was aimed at his head, and he ducked that, then swung his sword at the orc, hoping to do some sort of damage with it. The orc, however, flung his weapon up to block Gwestion's sword. The chains connecting the handle to the spiked balls wrapped around Gwestion's sword, and tangled. Snarling, the orc kicked, slamming his foot into Gwestion's stomach, knocking the air from him. He felt his right foot slip off of the edge of the ridge, and desperately tried to shove his foe backward, but his left knee was weakened, buckling under him once all his weight was on it. With a cry, he began falling, and frantically tried to regain his footing. His foot caught on something, and he nearly pulled himself back up, until the loose rock slipped out from under him. For half a second he thought his fall might still be stopped, for his arm was jerked by the sword, still tangled up in the orc's flail. Then the orc's snarl turned to a look of surprise, and they were both falling.

Gwestion struck a small boulder, then another, and another as he tumbled down the ravine, picking up speed as he went. He was rolling too fast to stop, and lost count of how many times his body was struck on a rock. There were too many large rocks and boulders, and the fall seemed for a moment as if it would never stop. When, at last, he had come to a stop, it took Gwestion a moment to register that his fall had come to a halt at last. His side hurt tremendously from the rocks, as did his lower back. Each breath was excruciating, and he lay very still, momentarily afraid to try moving. At first, he thought that he couldn't move at all, in fact. He stared forward dazedly at the large boulder that lay in front of his face. There was a smear of blood on it, and he thought vaguely that it might explain why the side of his face was in such pain, and his head was pounding.. all sounds seemed muted for the ringing in his ears.

A movement on the edge of sight drew his attention, and it returned to mind, suddenly, that the orc had fallen with him. Gwestion may have stopped falling, but he was still in great peril. Especially if he couldn't move, as he currently feared. He must be able to move, or he was dead. The urgency of that thought brought him back into focus, and soon the ringing in his ears faded. He could hear the orc, sneering with a guttural laugh as he approached Gwestion, like a cat toying with a wounded mouse. He probably looked quite defenseless to the orc. He felt rather defenseless, if he was honest. But he was also quite desperate, and determined that he was not about to give up that easily. He looked around a little bit frantically, struggling to keep panic at bay. He could see the hilt of his sword just above him, apparently caught between two rocks. It might be just within reach, he thought with a flare of hope. Reaching for it caused him further pain, but he reached anyway. He gasped as searing pain lanced through his rib area, and felt sure he must have a broken rib at least, if not multiple. The orc leered closer, climbing over boulders to get to him. Gritting his teeth in determination, Gwestion tried to drag himself nearer to his weapon, but couldn't seem to do it. He stretched his arm out as far as he could.. his fingertips brushed the very tip of it. Struggling, he tried again, then a third time, and managed to just grasp the pommel, gasping with pain at the effort. He expected it to be heavy to drag toward him enough to fully grip the handle, and was surprised when it came easily. Until he saw the rest of it, that is. He stared in horror at it; the entire blade had snapped off from the hilt, rendering it entirely useless. With mixed feelings of sorrow and frustration, he tossed the useless hilt of the ruined weapon down, and looked around in growing panic.

The young man remembered the small knife hidden in his boot. His dagger was likely lost somewhere, but there was still the smaller blade, tucked away in a hidden sheath in his boot. With great difficulty, Gwestion dragged himself partially upright, pain searing through his midsection, spreading down to his back. Gasping in pain, he grasped the side of the nearby boulder, reaching toward his legs, trying to push past the pain. The sight of his right leg stopped him short for a second, staring, aghast, at the bone protruding from the blood-covered limb. His blood was everywhere, it seemed, and the wound was horrifying. Only the thought of the orc coming to slay him drove Gwestion to try and push past the awful sight. His leg lay at such an angle that he couldn't quite reach his boot, and several medium-sized rocks had rolled onto him, pinning the lower part of his legs. He couldn't get to his boots, and his ribs were hurting so badly, it was agony to keep trying.

Then, spotting part of his sword blade underneath his other leg, Gwestion struggled to reach that instead, as it was nearer. It was with great difficulty that he managed to pull the broken blade from beneath his legs without causing further damage. All the while, the orc was drawing nearer and nearer with every second that passed. He was bearing down on Gwestion now, as he tried to grip the broken-off part of the blade without harming his hand too badly. The flail swung toward him, and he flung his arm up to block it from striking his head, where it was aimed. The weapon hurt as it struck his arm, the chains wrapping around it, but he tried not to think on that. He had caught the orc's arm, and that was what mattered. Gripping as tightly as he could manage, Gwestion yanked, pulling his foe down with all the strength left to him with that hand, while the other shoved the broken-off end of his sword up, into the orc's chest, ignoring the edges of the blade that cut into his fingers.

Having accomplished his goal, slaying his enemy, Gwestion collapsed back onto the ground, while the orc fell, dead, over him. He grimaced, trying to shove it aside, but only partially succeeded. The effort left him feeling woozy, and he vaguely wondered how much blood he'd lost. It had looked like a lot, which would explain this sudden lightheadedness. Trying to lie still, so not to invoke more pain, Gwestion closed his eyes, trying to take slow and careful breaths so not to hurt his ribs further, and gradually, at last, slipped out of consciousness.
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 9:29 am, edited 3 times in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

Steward of Gondor
Points: 5 582 
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(continuing the previous flashback post with Gwestion)


Gladhron
Somewhere in the wilds, within a day's ride from the Forsaken Inn

At first, Gladhron was puzzled when Gwestion stopped in mid-sentence, but his confusion swiftly evaporated when he glanced back and saw what had happened. Before he could make a move to help his brother, he was surrounded on all sides as well. Orcs leaped out of the dusky forest on his left, moving swiftly toward him. Gaeroch reared in fright, and Gladhron nearly fell off, merely because it was unexpected, yet he managed to stay in the saddle anyway. Drawing his sword, he struck down the nearest orc before another one caught his leg, yanking him from the saddle. Gladhron yelled as he kicked and struggled, and managed to free himself. The horse, meanwhile, sustained a slash across her flank from an orc's sword. With a shriek of both pain and fear, the mare fled from the scene in great panic. Though Gladhron did worry about her a bit, his primary concern at the moment was surviving, himself. As four orcs began closing in on him, Gladhron glanced around for an opening to attack. He caught a glimpse of his brother fighting three others, some distance away, but couldn't go to his aid just yet. An orc made the first move, and Gladhron swiftly ducked as his foe swung at him, and was quite pleased when the blow meant for his neck caught the orc behind him, just as it lunged forward. Acting rapidly, Gladhron swung his blade around while the orc was busy trying to extract his sword from the body of his fellow, but another orc blocked the attack. Gladhron was sure that it wasn't for the purpose of rescuing his fellow, but rather attacking a common enemy; himself. He was glad, at least, that he was now facing only three foes from the front, rather than four, one on every side. His sword clashed and rang against the enemy's weapons as he defended himself frantically, grateful for all of the sword training in his youth.

As they drove him backward, Gladhron soon found his back against a tree, parrying and countering against three orcs at once, until at last he managed a thrust which impaled one of his opponents. Turning to the one remaining, Gladhron suddenly felt confused, realized that one of them had vanished at some point. He hadn't even noticed, and wondered where the other one had gone, but had no time to ponder on it. He was busy defending himself, though not as frantic as before. Seeing an overhead attack swinging down at his head, Gladhron brought his sword up to strike the other away, then swifter than the orc could dodge, swung it back forward, beheading the vile being. He spun around swiftly, searching for the third. Where did it go? Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he couldn't make sense of this.

Then he remembered Gwestion. Running back toward where he had seen his brother, he intended to help him, but two more orcs appeared in his way. Gladhron swiftly blocked a strike to the abs, catching the orc's arm and pinning it to his side, then swung it around to meet the attack of the other. The bladed mace had been aimed for Gladhron's head; instead, it only grazed his forehead as he jerked his head back to avoid it, then crashed into the neck of the orc Gladhron had trapped. He shoved the dead orc at the live one, thus freeing his sword hand again, and backtracked swiftly as the orc came at him ferociously. A savage kick to the chest drove him hard backward, so hard he slammed into a tree. It jarred him a little, but he shook his head a bit and ducked as the orc swung the mace toward his head. The blades on the weapon stuck in the tree, and Gladhron took advantage of the opportunity to impale his foe, then slipped out from between it and the tree.

Time to try this again. "Gwestion!" Gladhron called, turning to search for his brother. He ran along the ridge, seeking Gwestion, fearing he may be too late to aid him. How many orcs had there been, anyway? He hadn't really counted, and didn't know how many his brother had fought, but he couldn't find any trace of him. "Gwestion?" He called, frowning as he listened for the sounds of fighting. All seemed silent, now. That worried him. Where was his brother? He turned his attention to the ground, trying to find a trail, but it was too dark. He wiped at the trickle running down his forehead, frowning at the blood that came away onto his hand. It wasn't that bad though. He turned back to his search, coming across dead orcs now and then. That was a good sign, at least. He checked each body to make sure it was an orc, not Gwestion, though there was little chance of mistaking the two. He might tease him later about that, but for now, he needed to find him. Hurrying back along the ridge, Gladhron called again, though he feared he might draw the attention of more orcs, or worse, he was too worried about Gwestion to care too much at the moment. At last, he stopped as he saw a glint in the moonlight, and knelt to investigate. Gwestion's dagger. The moon slipped out from behind a cloud, and he was able to make out the tracks at the edge of the ridge. His heart seemed to stop for a few seconds, staring at the evidence that lay before his eyes. Boot tracks, slipping off of the edge here... a chill swept over him, fearing the worst. No, not Gwestion, he thought in despair. He peered down the ravine, trying to see if he might spot him, but it was too dark, and too steep. "Gwestion!" He yelled, hoping for some reply. The echoes died away, and all was silent. "No, please, no.." He murmured.

He had to find some way down there. Gripping his brother's dagger, he stood, then sheathed his sword. After a moment, he tucked the dagger into his belt, and began searching for somewhere that he might be able to climb down the ridge. It wouldn't do to fall down there himself and share his brother's fate, after all.. whatever that may be. He traveled a long way along the ridge, noticing it gradually becoming less steep. After a bit, he was pleasantly surprised to come across a horse. Speaking softly, he approached. He was mildly disappointed to see it was Mael, not Gaeroch, but one horse was better than no horse, and he soon stood stroking her neck, speaking soothingly to her. She had been frightened by the ordeal, but was not harmed, it seemed. Gladhron led her along with him as he continued on with his mission. A couple of hours passed before he found a place where he and the horse could pick their way down to the bottom of the ravine. Though it was frustrating to have to waste so much time, he knew it was really the only way he was going to be able to locate Gwestion.

Once he'd reached the bottom, he had to backtrack and hope he didn't pass up the spot where he needed to be. And then there was the chance that Gwestion hadn't gone all the way to the bottom. What if he was stuck halfway somewhere, and Gladhron missed him entirely? He couldn't stop all of these worries from swirling around in his head as he traveled slowly, picking his way around rocks, trying to find steady footing, and also helping Mael to do the same. It was slow going, and every moment he felt more and more anxious about what might have happened to Gwestion. Dawn broke at last, and before too long, a grey light had begun to spread over the rocks. Gladhron felt a tiny bit of hope at that. Every so often, Gladhron stopped and called his brother's name a couple of times, then stood still and listened as hard as he could. No reply. That worried him more than anything. He tried to tell himself that perhaps Gwestion was only unconscious, but he feared it was another reason. "Don't worry," He spoke softly to Mael, patting her neck lightly. "We'll find him." The horse nuzzled his shoulder, and he imagined she might be communicating 'of course we will' or something similar.

The sun was high in the sky, past noon Gladhron thought, before he finally decided that he must have gone too far. But had he? He felt frustrated, being so uncertain. He climbed up to the top of the tallest boulder around, surveying the area closely. "Gwestion!" He called, hopeful. Still no answer. He sighed and climbed down. "Let's turn back, I think we went too far." He told Mael. He started back, hoping he was right. Another hour or two passed. Gladhron was traveling much slower, trying to make sure he didn't miss anything. He stopped now and then, climbed up the highest point he could find, and searched around, each time with no luck. Until at last, as it was growing later toward evening, he saw something that stopped him in his tracks. Birds of prey circling over a spot. He caught his breath, fearing what that might mean, then climbed onto the nearest boulder, peering around the area. He nearly missed an important sign, but then did a double-take, peering closer at a dark smudge further up the slope. "Mael, wait here." He scrambled swiftly toward the place, climbing over rocks and nearly lost his footing a couple of times, but soon he could make out a smear of blood on the boulder. The sight of it gripped his heart with fear for his brother. "Gwestion?" He called, urgent. "Gwestion, are you near? Can you hear me?" He looked around frantically. Then, at last, he saw a dark shape, lying hidden behind a tall boulder. There was more blood nearby.

Fearing the worst, Gladhron picked his way toward the figure, and stopped short. His blood ran cold at the sight of Gwestion, partially pinned beneath an orc, both red and black blood all around the area. Horrified and afraid to confirm his fears, Gladhron stood frozen for a moment, unable to move. "No..." He breathed, feeling despair sweep over him. But he had to know. Swallowing hard, he forced himself forward, gritting his teeth as he dragged the dead orc off of Gwestion, then knelt beside his brother, struggling to hold back tears. "No, Gwestion... no," He picked up his limp, bloodied hand, bowing his head down in grief. It took a second to dawn on him that Gwestion's hand was warm. Startled, he looked closer at his brother, hope flaring up once again. Then.. yes! he was breathing! Very faint, shallow breaths, but it was breath! Gladhron nearly laughed in relief, tears still in his eyes. "He's alive!" He looked up at the sky as if to thank the creator, then suddenly wondered.. how was he going to get Gwestion back up that ravine? His joy at discovering he still lived was somewhat lessened by the fact he had no idea how to get him any help. How long would he live, out here wounded like this, without a healer? Gladhron suddenly wished, more than anything, that he had paid more attention when his mother was trying to teach him about tending wounds.

Should he stay here until it was light again? Or ought he to try and get him someplace safer? He was torn, trying to think of what she would do, but his memories of his mother were faint, much to his regret. He had spent much more time with his father, since his teen years, and it saddened him that he remembered so little of his mother. Gwestion would've known what to do, of course, but that didn't help him any. After several moments of debating, Gladhron eventually decided it might he best if he got him someplace else. Those prey birds would be coming to feast on the orc's body before long, and he didn't want them mistaking Gwestion for a corpse as well. After moving the rocks off of the lower half of his brother's legs, he took off his cloak and wrapped it around his Gwestion, cringing at the horrific break on his leg. That.. that was going to take a while to heal. He struggled to lift him and get him over the rocks, to the horse. Then.. what? He frowned, unsure if there might be other injuries he couldn't see. But he didn't know how else to get him back up to the top, and so as gently as he could, he laid him over the saddle, hoping there were no internal injuries. Murmuring apologies to his unconscious brother, he secured him to the saddle with some rope, and then set out back the way he'd come, knowing nothing else to do. It was a long hike back, having to take it even slower now with Gwestion wounded, and trying to keep Mael from jarring him too much.

It was well into the night before he finally found a place where the slope was gentle enough that Mael could make the climb while carrying Gwestion. Gladhron led her, though he was utterly exhausted. He had not eaten nor slept since... whenever he last did such before the orcs attacked. He felt bad for Mael, too, for she had only had a few quick snacks on shrubbery, and very little sleep while he was searching for Gwestion. Nearing the crest of the hill, Gladhron grabbed a rock to pull himself up, eager to get out of this ravine and on his way to get help for Gwestion. But as he tried to pull himself up, the rock broke away from the ground. He yelped in surprise as he started falling. Panic flared up, thinking of how he had found Gwestion.. fearing he would soon be in the same condition. Then a large boulder stopped his progress back down the slope, his head slamming against it.. right in the same spot where the orc's mace had cut his forehead before. Intense pain blossomed through his head, and Gladhron crumbled to the ground, groaning as he cradled his head in both arms.

"Ohh.." He didn't want to move.. his vision was blurred and his head was throbbing violently. It occurred to him how very embarrassing it was that he survived all of that... only to get hurt because he got careless just as he reached the top of the ravine. The thought might have made him laugh, except his head hurt so much. With a great deal of difficulty, he finally struggled back upright, swaying, gripping the boulder which had wounded him for support. Gwestion. The memory of how badly hurt his brother was drove him to push through his own pain. He collapsed back down partly, then proceeded back up the slow on hands and knees, until he finally reached the top. Mael had finished the climb without him, and stood calmly under some trees.

It took Gladhron a few moments to recover himself enough to stagger toward the horse, leaning against her side. Snorting softly, she looked at him questioningly. He managed a weak smile. "If anyone asks..." He mumbled, as if she could understand, "I was wounded whilst fighting the orcs.. alright?" He had a ways to go yet, and he didn't like having Gwestion slung across the saddle like that. It was likely to cause him further injury, after all. After fumbling through his brother's saddlebags, he found some tools he knew Gwestion kept with him, and soon set about cutting some tree boughs. It was difficult, struggling to focus when he could hardly see, but eventually, he had fastened together a sort of stretcher, which he secured onto Mael's saddle. His head was pounding fiercely, and he struggled to focus as he carefully moved Gwestion onto the stretcher. He was exhausted, that was all. He told himself this over and over, reminding himself how long he'd been without sleep. Or food. He just needed to rest, and the headache would go away. That half of his face was sticky with blood, but he tried to ignore that as he tied Gwestion to the makeshift stretcher.

Once that task was complete, Gladhron fought against the temptation to just lie down right there and go to sleep. Gwestion might be in urgent need of help. Any further delay could cost his life, for all Gladhron knew. He felt sickening dizzyiness sweep over him as he stood and stumbled over to the horse, catching himself on the saddle. It took him a bit of effort to haul himself up into the saddle, and closed his eyes tightly, trying to shut out the overwhelming dizziness that followed. Just exhausted, he told himself, though deep down he knew there was more than that. If he just got some sleep, he'd be alright. "Forsaken inn," he murmured, figuring that was the closest place to take Gwestion. "I can manage that. We can do that, can't we girl?"

Nudging the horse's sides, he hoped she'd gotten a good nap while he was making the stretcher. She seemed unhappy to be dragging some big awkward thing behind her while also carrying Gladhron, but she started forward anyway. At the first, Gladhron tried directing her, but before long, he was in such a daze, he had no idea where she was heading, and could only hope they might end up at least close to where he wanted to go...


(continued here)
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 9:33 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Gwandhyra Harion, passing through Chetwood
For a ‘Spontaneous adventure’, with Bel



He shunned the road, veering off into the woods. The uncultivated course. For what could any man learn of himself by walking where all other men walked ? The forest was unthreatened, did not care why he came that way and where he was headed. He was able to lose himself as he ambled with no urgency upon his way.

For the wood was woodland, and a forest was a forest. And here the Ranger of the South could forget that he stood a Ranger now in the desolate North. There was little of Bree, his recent haunt, which reminded him of Minas Tirith. Houses here lined their narrow streets like rows of crooked teeth, propping one another up. Not a one was alike to the next, and all had gone through such various stages of repair over the years, using a multitude of materials which had boasted their popularity each in turn as foreign merchants introduced them … that each building now told it’s own tale, by scar and by shape. Back home all was dusted white, in ever rising planes of such identical surrounds, that you could be anywhere in all the Gondorian capitol unless you stopped with time enough to glance about for insightful clues. It took the living in Minas Tirith for many years before you grew accustomed to the little details that defined each symmetrical circle. To those unfamiliar, the White City was a maze, it’s shimmering bleached foundations a military strategy to safeguard it from invaders. Bree was it’s entire opposite.

And Chetwood was by no means the grand fiefdom of Ithilien, but still it was a place where he could see before he was seen. It was a place he could catch a scent, or chase a trail. A rare oasis in the otherwise vast, undulating hills and valleys of ancient ruins and haunted remnants, of Arnorien decay. Everywhere about the North felt as one gargantuan cemetery. Yet, the tiny scrap of woodland bore some semblance of an old friend. It was just enough to engulf him in the memory which felt as poignant here as there. As just one more uncivilised creature stealing through the thickets under tree, Gwandhyra was not like to be interrupted as he went on his way. And so he sang, unobserved and unconcerned.

It was a song of returning, and he meant it for the daughter he had just taken his leave from, but he had first heard it during his time in the south. And though the words spoke of some one the singer yearned for, always the Gondorian’s heart envisaged the soul of a place, just as keenly missed as was his kin. For indeed, many of them, to the best of his knowledge anyway, dwelt there still. In Gondor, in the south, back home.


I hear the wind call my name,
the sound that leads me home again.
It sparks up the fire, a flame that still burns;
to you I will always return

I know the road is long but where you are is home
Wherever you stay, I’ll find the way.
I’ll run like the river, I’ll follow the sun
I’ll fly like an eagle to where I belong.

I can’t stand the distance, I can’t dream alone
I can’t wait to see you, yes. I’m on my way home.
Now I know its true, my every road leads to you
and in my hour of darkness, your light gets me through.

You run like the river, you shine like the sun.
You fly like an eagle, yes you are the one
I seen every sunset and with all that I’ve learned:
is to you I will always, always return.
” *


Snatches of the tune saw him pass the hours after, and kept his heart light, his hope full. But as the day withered into night, and the light was stained by the first shadows of early evening, it was a cacophony of very different sounds that caught his notice. And the contrast, as much as what it might mean, saw the Ranger rein in his recklessness. Or rather surrender to it.

Darkness had a way of dressing a place fit for fear, and Dusk was well on her way to meeting darkness in the skulking shadows. In the forest, in the night, was where wild things lurked, things with large blinking eyes, things that unleashed unexplained noises. Gwandhyra was no stranger to such noises, and the strain of this latest he knew better than he wished. But to see it explained, and silenced, he stole toward it’s origin. For it did not strike him with terror, but with anger. That the forest should be so disturbed.

His entrance to the scene was far more modest than alarming and he could not fault the men for casting him no immediate mind. The drab raiment and weather-stained cloak did not announce a mighty hero, a reckless leaf had found purchase in his tousled hair, mud seemed his only armour and the scabbard which he housed his mighty blade in was deliberately well-scored and ugly to gaze upon. Also, of course there were at least four of the varmints, and only one of him. But there was no question of not interfering. A young girl was in need. And any man who was father to a daughter they loved quite as he loved his, could not have done anything else.

So, you like your odds four against one,” he remarked, overly loud to be heard over their bedlam. Slow but sure steps carried him up to where they should not fail to see him. “I can see why, since it takes the all of you to subdue a little girl, which I note, you haven’t yet managed.” It wasn’t wise to antagonise them. After all there were at least four of them. And only one of him. But the more angry he could make the Men toward him, the less they would be hurting her. Those who hung back with their prize even might be distracted by the ‘entertainment’. That was the plan, if he had properly even conceived it as a plan, which of course he had not.

Maybe an old man would be more of an even match ?

*(Lyrics credited to ‘I will always return’ by Bryan Adams)
Last edited by Ercassie on Mon Jan 03, 2022 8:58 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Attubel - Being accosted by bandits
Somewhere in a forest between the Forsaken Inn and Bree


The bandits felt no great rush in apprehending the girl. She was caught, like a little mouse, and she wasn’t getting away from them. They could enjoy toying with her a bit before having their idea of real fun. So it was quite a surprise to hear a new voice speaking out of the shadows. Astonished, the four men turned to see who had dared to interrupt them, and stared at the lone man who stood there. Challenging them. Except for the one who held onto the squirming, struggling Bel, the bandits stood completely still for a few seconds, before one of them broke the silence by laughing.

To think that such a bedraggled-looking, mud-stained traveler, alone out in these woods, would have the audacity to challenge the four of them… all armed and deadly bandits, was absolutely laughable, the men thought. The other three quickly shared in the first’s humor for a moment. The one gripping the squirming girl backed away a little bit, thinking to keep their prize away from any harm, while the other three turned to meet this amusing challenger. “You must have a wish for death, stranger,” One of the bandits smirked as he drew out his blade, stolen from some previous victim. “Come and get it then, we’ll be glad to oblige you,” He grinned.

The one holding Bel’s sword nudged the other, noticing the hilt on the stranger’s sword.. even if the scabbard looked ugly and worn, the weapon itself might be something worth stealing. “Looks like I’m not the only one getting a nice new sword, huh?” He commented to his buddy, and the two snickered before advancing to back up the other in slaying the intruder. It seemed to be growing darker by the minute, until a cloud slid away from the moon and provided them with just enough light to see by.. and to fight each other by.



During the pause, while the bandits were staring at the stranger who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, and trying to decide how to react to this new turn of events, Bel was filled with new hope at the realization that someone had come to her rescue, though it seemed to be a stranger. She had no idea who this man could be, or why he would choose to risk his life to help her, but she was beyond grateful and tried to use the distraction to her advantage. Which meant doing all she could to break free from the man holding her, including stomping on his foot when he made the mistake of putting it where she could do so. She very nearly succeeded in getting away from him as he yelped in pain, hopping on one foot. But then he caught her around the waist in a stronger grip, with one arm wrapped tight around her waist, the other around her chest, sort of pinning her arms to her sides. Half-carrying her, he moved further back, away from the impending battle, and then further into shadows. Deeper into the forest, till the others were out of sight. Bel feared what purpose this man may have for secluding her so far away from all the rest, and struggled all the harder to get free.

Still, it seemed the harder she struggled, the tighter he squeezed his grip around her, trapping her arms down to her sides, like a snake squeezing the life out of its prey. She gasped, feeling like he might just crush her if he squeezed any tighter. She finally stopped squirming, hardly able to take a breath because of how hard he was squeezing her.

He grinned. “Now you’re catching on.” He let up a little, allowing her to breathe again, but not enough for her to get free.

“Let me go..” She pleaded, trying to look back toward the others, wondering what was happening with that one man against the three bandits. But he’d taken her too far away to see much, now, though she could sort of hear some of their fighting.

“No way,” The bandit grinned a little and turned her to face him. “Maybe I’ll get you all to myself,” He added, and tried to kiss her.

Bel swiftly turned her head away as she struggled fiercely again, trying to push him away from her, thinking maybe if she pushed hard enough, she might break out of his grip.

In her struggling, her hand knocked against the handle of a knife at his belt. Surprised, she quickly seized it, yanking the knife out of its sheath, and put the point of it against his chest while she pushed again with her other hand.

Feeling the sharp point against him, the man froze and let go of her, startled.

“St-stay away from me!” Bel gasped, heart racing as she tried to think of what to do now. She had a weapon, but she had no idea how to make use of it.. nor did she think she could actually bring herself to harm a person. But he didn’t know that, did he? “Just keep away!” She told him, backing up a step as he advanced one, holding out a hand.

“You’d better give that back, girl...” He told her warningly. “You’re going to hurt yourself, playing with a knife like that. Just give it back. I’m not going to hurt you, come on, just give it to me...” He tried to smile and look friendly, which might have been laughable if she wasn’t so frightened and feeling so threatened.

“No, I won’t hurt myself,” She frowned, “but I will hurt you, if you take another step.” She tried to sound stern, and to look like she meant what she said. She had no idea whether she looked as threatening as she tried to look, but hoped it might work. “Now, stay back!” She warned him, carefully taking another small step backward, but unfortunately felt her back against a tree. She couldn’t go any further.. now what?

The bandit stopped and held up his hands, as if trying to look non-threatening. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you,” He told her, keeping his voice calm. “Really, I just-” He suddenly lunged forward, grabbing for her wrist.

Startled by the sudden motion, Bel unintentionally let out a little scream as she tried to dodge to one side, but not fast enough. He grabbed her wrist tightly, trying to get the knife from her, and for a moment, they were locked in a struggle over the knife, Bel feeling absolutely terrified of how this struggle might turn out.. she certainly didn’t anticipate the man making a grab for her while she was trying to threaten him with a knife in her hand!
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 9:25 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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Daedhrochon "Daed" and Gladhron

Somewhere in the woods, vaguely the direction of Bree, within a day's ride from the Forsaken Inn


"Are you sure this is the right area?" Daed frowned as he glanced around, surveying the area which Gladhron claimed he recognized.
"I... I'm pretty sure." Gladhron hesitated, a little puzzled. "Though, I could be a bit off. I was quite disoriented at the time..."
"I think perhaps we ought to venture further. I see no signs of battle here, nor any orc remains. Do either of you?" He glanced at Gladhron and then at Dínen questioningly.
"It was weeks ago," The younger man shrugged and wandered a few further steps into the forest, leaving his horse for a moment.
"It wasn't that many weeks ago," Daed pointed out. "Only two, if my count is right?"
"Well, maybe others came along, and buried their dead." Gladhron suggested, distracted as he peered between some ferns with a frown. Turning when there was no immediate answer from the older ranger, he saw that Daed had stopped and given him a look with a raised eyebrow. Gladhron paused, thinking about what he'd just said to invite such an expression, and realized this was orcs they were talking about. "Oh. Alright... I take that back." He admitted. "Perhaps the corpses were eaten by wild animals, then?"
Daed gazed back at the young man a moment longer, then swept an arm to gesture around the bare ground. "Wargs are the only creatures I know of which would feast upon the corpse of an orc. Do you see any warg tracks around this area?" He tilted his head.

Gladhron took a look around again, feeling suddenly as if he were back with his father, always thinking things through far more carefully than him, being critical of Gladhron not doing the same. "Alright, so this isn't the spot after all," He admitted. "It certainly looked like it though." He shrugged apologetically. "I told you, I was disoriented, I'm..still not fully recovered from that blow to the head," He mumbled, lightly touching the bandage tied around his forehead. The wound was healing well enough, though it still hurt at times. And it made for a convenient excuse at times when he said something before he'd taken the time to think it through. "Let us venture forward a bit more, then." He suggested, optimistic that they would surely find the spot, and promptly set off with renewed eagerness.

Shaking his head slightly in amusement, Daed followed Gladhron, one corner of his mouth tugging upward in a smile, and glanced at Dínen with a shrug. "We could be a while." He spoke quietly with a slight grin, wondering whether Gladhron would really be able to recognize the place where he and his brother were ambushed a couple of weeks ago.

A few hours prior...
Forsaken Inn
"Just where do you think you're going?" Daed caught up to Gladhron at the stables after watching him set out as if on a mission. The young man was already saddling his horse, without any help from the rather useless stable hand who had apparently decided to take the day off.
"I'll be alright," Gladhron looked up from tightening the cinch. "I'm going out to retrieve what I can of Gwestion's sword," He explained, frowning.
"Pardon me?" Daed frowned, shaking his head. "Have you forgotten that you were hurt rather badly as well? Or did that bump on the head do more damage than we thought?"
"He'll want to retrieve them," Gladhron replied, rolling his eyes. "He was just telling Bel how much he regretted having lost it, as it was a good sword and so on. I know my brother. He'll want to go back and find the pieces, in the hope that he might find a smith to repair it. So I figured I could at least recover the pieces while he's still recovering, and-"
"You plan to return to where the two of you were nearly killed... just to find some fragments of a broken sword?"
"Gwestion will insist upon it as soon as he's able to travel, if it isn't done for him by then."

Daed sighed softly, nodding a little. "Yes, of course he will." He muttered, thinking how similar the younger of the two brothers was to their father. Gwedhion wouldn't rest easy without having at least tried to salvage a good weapon, if he could help it. And sword-quality metal was quite expensive, so it was better if one could bring the pieces to a smith to have it remade. "If you insist on going, then you aren't going alone." He declared. "Wait for me to get a horse," He ordered, before going into the stable to find a horse to borrow.
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 11:01 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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Dínen
Between Bree and the Forsaken Inn
@Rillewen

A bird had been following them. A small crow that flew from tree to tree as the three rangers made their way through the woods. It must have been a young crow for was not very good at hiding that it was following them. Dínen was not yet sure whether the young crow was simply curious or if there was something more sinister afoot. He had no reason to suspect anything, yet, so he contented himself to watch the black bird bounding from the tree tops. Dead’s question distracted him from watching the bird. And he scanned around the area. He simply shook his head in response. He saw no signs of orcs or battle in the immediate vicinity.

Two weeks was enough to cover a light footprint or a ruffled leaf or branch but a dead orc or signs of a battle violent enough to break a sword would leave more obvious marks. Unless someone had intentionally tried to disguise it, which seemed unlikely for orcs. The younger ranger seemed to have been guided by Daed to the same conclusion and Dínen couldn’t help but smile at the conversation. Dínen was not used to the company of other people but it made for an interesting change of pace.

The wind blew gently and the leaves rustled in the trees. The crow was still there, watching them curiously. Dínen frowned and sniffed the air. Gladhron had decided that this was indeed not the right location and that they best press on. When Daed leaned in and said that it might be a while with a smile Dínen returned the smile “I enjoy a good walk in the woods” he replied. The Rangers as a rule were known for their nomadic lifestyle in the north but Dínen was known for being quiet and solitary, often leaving out on his own and not returning for months at a time.

A few hours prior...
Forsaken Inn

If it hadn’t had been for needing to see the stable master for some repairs on his bit and reigns that he hadn’t managed to fix by himself, Dínen wouldn’t have found himself near the inn. The stable master had helped him fix the bit and saddle and convinced him to stay the night at the inn. Dínen was brushing and preparing his horse to leave, he was in the back corner stall, when Gladhron had come rushing in after his horse. Dínen was in the back stall and the young ranger was in too much of a hurry it seemed to notice.

Shortly after, however, the familiar face of Daedhrochon came into the stables right as Dínen was about to lead his horse out to leave. They caught eyes and Dínen nodded. “Daed” he said with a nod. Dínen then motioned with his eyes and raising one of his eyebrows in the direction of where Gladhron had gone as if to ask whether Daed knew why the young ranger was in such a hurry.

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@Romeran

Daedhrochon "Daed" and Gladhron

Somewhere in the woods, within a day's ride from the Forsaken Inn

"Gladhron," Daed spoke up quietly as they continued onward. "Be wary, for there may be more live orcs in the area, as you yourself suggested just a moment ago."
Pausing, Gladhron frowned at that, and glanced at his horse thoughtfully. "Gaeroch would smell them, as would Mael. Probably Dínen's horse, as well." He pointed out. He may not be the most experienced ranger, but he knew horses; being half-Rohirrim, his mother had taught him much about the beautiful animals her people held in such high esteem. "Does your horse have a name?" He inquired of the other ranger, smiling in the hope of making a new friend. It ought to be far easier without Gwestion around to discourage friendship with someone they didn't know. So far the other man had been very quiet, and he hoped that he wasn't always so... or, perhaps he'd get along better with Gwestion; they'd never say a word to each other and get along great. "I feel as if I've seen you somewhere before," He added, trying to place where he might have seen him.

Glancing at the young man, Daed inwardly thought it was good for him that Daed hadn't allowed him to go alone, as he seemed a little too dismissive of possible danger. "Did your horses exhibit any signs before that there were orcs nearby?" He wondered. "When you and Gwestion were ambushed, that is."
Gladhron glanced at his horse, hesitating, and tried to think back about that. "Well, I.. um," He actually had no proper answer for that, as he had been busy teasing his brother at the time, and not paying much attention to anything aside from annoying Gwestion. "I.. didn't notice." He admitted after a moment. "I must admit, I was... busy at the time."

"Then pay closer attention this time," Daed cautioned him.
Glancing at him, Gladhron tilted his head. "You sound a great deal like my father, you know," Gladhron commented, recalling how his father would say things just like that.
Daed paused, a little surprised by that, and gave a vague smile. "Good. I'll take that as a compliment." He answered softly. It was more of a compliment than Gladhron realized, to Daed, who once wanted to be just like his older brother... not that Gladhron knew of any of that, yet.

"Wait!" Gladhron suddenly stopped, frowning as he looked around. "This is..." He tilted his head, peering down the steep ravine. "Yes, that's the place where I pulled him out from the ravine," He declared, puzzled by this. "I uh, recognize that boulder. Or rather, what's on it.. see?" He pointed down to where a large boulder, about halfway down the ravine, was painted with a smear of blood. "Strange, I thought for certain this was past the place where we fought the orcs..." He gazed around, further baffled. "Perhaps I was more disoriented than I thought, at the time."

A few hours prior...
Forsaken Inn - stables

Upon entering the stable, Daed located the horse belonging to Gladhron's brother, since he wouldn't be riding for a good while, it ought to be alright. Mael, as the horse was named, could probably use the exercise anyway. He was reaching to grab the saddle when he spotted the other man there, and paused, thinking quickly to recall his name. He hadn't seen anyone out in the woods for a long while, before running into the merchant and his companion, but obviously this man knew him by name. "Ah, Dínen!" he recalled, smiling. "How are you? If you're heading inside, I believe there's still some food on the stove." He paused, thinking of an idea. "Or, if you'd like to accompany my young friend and I, we were about to set out to investigate a section of the road, which has fallen into disrepair. There were orcs there a few weeks back, and I'm worried there may still be some lurking around there, so the more we have on our side, the better."
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 11:01 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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Dínen
Between Bree and the Forsaken Inn
@Rillewen

The bird continued to follow the party as they moved on and Dínen monitored him in his peripheral vision as they marched along, allowing his horse to guide their path. Dínen looked between the two other men he had joined. There seemed to be something familiar in their faces. Dínen had met both of them before, although it had been many years, and hadn’t considered that they would even know the other even if the Dúnedain were counted few. But seeing them there, together, and he couldn’t help but see that there were small similarities between them. Similarities he realized that Gladhron shared with his father.

Gladhron’s question stirred him from his thoughts again. “Lillawen is her name” he said “and they may smell them, if you’re paying enough attention to read the signs” he continued in response. He looked away again and searched for the crow which had followed them. At first he couldn’t see the bird and sighed in relief, but then he spotted the crow half way up a tree, cracking a nut as if trying to act natural. Dínen scowled and looked around again. “You have met me” Dínen said, without continuing for a moment to see what Gladhron would do “it was nigh ten years ago” he continued, but it was all that he would say.

Being likened to Gladhron’s father had gone over well with Daed which simultaneously lent and possibly removed credence from his theory of relationship. Perhaps they had a positive relationship and brothers or cousins with one looking up to they other. But it seemed equally likely that a relationship between siblings could be a tumultuous rivalry. The similarity between the two other rangers was undeniable, however, so Dínen felt that this was further proof.

When Lillawen came to an abrupt halt as Gladhron called out to wait, Dínen took the opportunity to look around the area for insight into what had occurred. The rocks in the distance with the blood was too difficult to make out any distinguishing details from their vantage point. “Was the blood already there when you pulled him out?” He asked breaking his silence and trying to get a better idea of the area “and how far from this point were you ambushed?” He continued.

A few hours prior...
Forsaken Inn - stables

Lillawen snorted as the other ranger responded to Dínen’s greeting and Dínen patted her gently on the neck. He smiled and nodded, Dínen had a knack for names and remembering faces, but he didn’t expect it from other people. It can be unnerving when someone knows your name and you do not remember theirs.

At the mention of going inside, Dínen nearly responded to say that he was leaving, but Daed continued to speak and Dínen was content to let him speak. He raised an eyebrow at the mention of orcs in the road. That was something that Dínen would not tolerate. He was an avid traveler and felt that it was part of their duty as rangers and Dúnedain to defend the roads from orcs. “Yrch” he said with a snarl “I will accompany you” he added. Dínen returned the horse brush to the stall and began to lead Lillawen outside following after Daed. Lillawen was a dark brown mare with a calm temperament which well matched Dínen and he meticulously cared for the horse whose coat shined in the light because of it.

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@Romeran

Daedhrochon "Daed" and Gladhron

Somewhere in the woods, within a day's ride from the Forsaken Inn

"I have?" Gladhron answered in surprise, taking a longer look at him. "Ten years?" He muttered, thinking. "I would have been rather young then," He paused to think, then nodded as the name and the timeframe connected. "Ah! Yes... forgive me for not remembering. I uh, have little desire to remember very much of that particular adventure." He explained. Honestly, the only part of that adventure that he cared to remember was a certain pretty girl he had met that time, but now that he had give it some thought, he recalled the man, somewhat. "You were with my father, and helped us with that horror in the forest that time." He recalled, nodding. "That was my very first adventure as a ranger," He added with a smile.

"That might make for an interesting tale," Daed commented with a slight smirk. "I'd be most interested in hearing how differently you and Dinen remember it happening," He flashed a grin at Dinen, already guessing whatever account he would have of the tale would be far more accurate than Gladhron's. "But I think it best if we save the stories for when we're safely back in the inn. For now, let us try to sort through your confusion."

Dinen's question was a good one, as Daed hadn't quite heard the full account of what happened, he didn't know where to be looking. He looked around carefully as Gladhron took a moment to think about it.

"Um no, the blood..." Gladhron hesitated, lightly touching the bandaged spot. "It came from me," he admitted. "While I was trying to get him out of the ravine." He paused, unwilling to admit that was how he'd injured his head, and added a slight twist to the truth, "I was bleeding from where the orc struck me, and I uh, remember that I leaned against that boulder. For support. And, well, that's how it got my blood on it."

"You were bleeding rather badly," Daed nodded. "I'm surprised there isn't more on other rocks, along the way." He glanced around, looking down the steep incline lined with boulders and such. It wasn't quite so steep here as where they had been earlier.

"I'm..not really sure how far," Gladhron answered the second part of Dinen's question, deciding not to give any answer to Daed's comment. "See, we were traveling this way," He paused, trying to remember. "And I was suggesting that we might stop at the Forsaken inn, but my brother didn't want to. And then... all of the sudden, out of nowhere, these orcs came at us, and we were overwhelmed for a moment." He looked around. "There must've been at least twenty of them! And then he and I got separated-"

"At least?" Daed interrupted, trying to hide a smile. "Are you sure it wasn't more like twenty-five? Twenty-seven, perhaps? Maybe it was closer to thirty?"

Gladhron hesitated, nodding. "Yes, it could've been!"

Rolling his eyes, Daed glanced at Dinen with something like exasperation, and back at Gladhron, folding his arms. "That's very interesting, seeing as your brother only reported ten or less..."

"Uh...well, we got separated, as I said." He shrugged. "He went tumbling down the ravine... he wouldn't know how many there were, as he was unconscious after that point." He explained, shifting a little uncomfortably.

"I think you exaggerate a little too much, Gladhron." He held up a hand to stop any protests. "I know you're exaggerating. We'd rather hear the true details. Save your exciting, exaggerated tales of adventure and daring for pretty girls you want to impress."

A few hours prior...
Forsaken Inn - stables

"Good," Daed smiled. "The more the merrier, in situations such as this." He took a moment to finish saddling Mael, the small dapple-grey horse he was borrowing from Gladhron's brother. "I'll introduce you to my companion along the way," He added. "He's quite young still, and has the mistaken idea that he's more experienced than he really is, but he's a nice enough boy." He grinned. For one of the Dunedain blood, Gladhron was still considered quite young, and had a ways to go in terms of maturity. Honestly, from what Daed had seen of him so far, the young man was very much like his namesake at the same age. Hopefully, he'd grow out of some of it with time.. assuming he stayed alive long enough to do so. Daed hoped to ensure that he did.

Having finished up, he led the horse outside and was relieved to see that Gladhron had not set off without him. "We'll have another joining us," He informed Gladhron, motioning toward Dinen as the other ranger emerged. Swinging up into the saddle, he nodded to the youngest member. "Lead the way then, since you're so impatient." And after only a friendly smile and nod to the unknown man who had joined them, Gladhron nudged Gaeroch onward, curious to learn more about this stranger as they traveled.
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 11:00 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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Dínen
Between Bree and the Forsaken Inn
@Rillewen

Telling stories was not Dínen's strength, he might write accounts of what had occurred in his journal but they tended to be concise and a straightforward record of events which generally did not make for an interesting tale. Dínen simply nodded his head "It was a long time ago and you were young" he said in consolation. It had taken even Dínen a few minutes to recognize who the boy was, grown as he had since then. Dínen, by contrast, was of an age among the Dúnedain where age appeared to affect them only slowly, and in ten years Dínen had barely visibly aged.

When Daed took the opportunity to change the subject and point them towards their more immediate duty, Dínen was glad and nodded his head in agreement although he did not say anything. Instead he continued to examine the surroundings looking for signs of a struggle with the orcs, so far he did not see one.

Dínen egged Lillawen forwards towards the edge down the ravine and the horse reluctantly and cautiously moved forward. Dínen peered down, craning over the neck of his horse and carefully examining the surroundings. Gladhron's story did not seem to add up to what Dínen saw with his eyes. If the boy had leaned on the boulder the blood splatter would have been different, it looked like he had struck the boulder, possibly with his head which might also have explained why he seemed so disoriented.

The proximity of the boulder to the escarpment was another clue he noted as he leaned down to peer at the steep slope. It looked as if someone had tried to climb up the slope and failed, at least once. Following the trail of disturbed rocks it looked like they led to the larger boulder which was covered in blood. Dínen began to piece together a picture of Gladhron discovering his brother, who Dínen knew was injured enough that he was not accompanying them on this trip, and then tried to escape up the escarpment to get help, had slipped and hit his head on the boulder. Dínen assumed that given Gladhron's brother had been found at the bottom of the ravine it was quite likely he too had injured himself in such a fall. It was lucky, if Dínen was correct, that Gladhron had not suffered as similar debilitating injury.

"After leaning on the boulder, did you try to climb the escarpment?" he asked, pointing down to where the rubble indicated some person or beast had attempted the climb. He did not immediately call out Gladhron's story as suspicious and instead gave him an alternate explanation for the events. As far as Dínen could surmise, Gladhron's white lie had been one of pride rather than malice and was likely not of material consequence.

Shortly after, Gladhron confirmed part of Dínen's suspicion that his brother had indeed fallen down the ravine and injured himself. Dínen was slowly getting a better picture of things. But still it eluded them where they had initially been attacked. It was clear at some point they had arrived near this bank of the ravine as Gwestion had fallen down and Gladhron had found him there and, at least attempted, to escape nearby. But how far had they run through the woods before ending in the ravine? There would be more information about the orcs at the point of ambush than where they were.

"Twenty, or fifty, or five" Dínen spoke, somewhat exasperated "just concentrate on back tracking to the point of ambush, work backwards from this point" the young ranger could exaggerate and elaborate on the tale later. The crow was still watching them, Dínen noticed, and he was beginning to feel as if the ambush which had taken Gladhron and Gwestion by surprise was no fluke. He leaned down and whispered in Lillawen's ear quietly in Sindarin, they would re-double their efforts to see or scent any other living creatures. The crow hopped on two more branches and suddenly flew off with a cry. Dínen wondered what that meant, where was the crow going with all that it had learned?

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@Romeran

Daedhrochon "Daed" and Gladhron

Somewhere in the woods, within a day's ride from the Forsaken Inn

Gladhron dropped his gaze down at the ravine, standing quietly while the other two spoke, letting himself think upon what both of these rangers had said. It didn't really matter how many orcs there were, Dinen was right, and he also realized Daed was right too, there was no point in embellishing the story to them. It wasn't quite that he was trying to impress them, exactly, but..he wasn't sure what it was. Maybe because they were both so well-experienced, he wanted to convince them he had some experience too, though that was a little silly. Whatever the case, it occurred to him that they might get annoyed with him if he kept it up, just like Gwestion always got annoyed. He always thought it was just Gwestion, but maybe it wasn't. That was something new to think about. Yet, he had other things he needed to think about, right now, and decided to save that for later contemplation.

"This is where I climbed out, yes," He answered Dinen's question. "With Gwestion upon Mael," he indicated the horse Daed had been riding. He frowned, trying to think back. "My head was throbbing, I...I don't really know," he sighed in frustration.
"He had a very bad concussion at the time," Daed interjected, to explain to Dinen. "It's almost a miracle he made it from here to the Inn, actually."
Nodding slightly, Gladhron tried to reconstruct the events. "I remember we were traveling toward the place called Chetwood, and.. we were talking as we traveled through this stretch of the woods, and suddenly the orcs were upon us." He frowned, looking again down the ravine.

"It was much steeper, where Gwestion fell," He remembered. "I had to travel a long way to find somewhere shallow enough to get down to the bottom..." He frowned. "I don't remember if I went this way, or that," he motioned to the right then left of their current location. "And then... I had to travel back and forth several times before I found him.. and when I did, I..thought at first he was dead, but thankfully..he was not. After that, I don't remember if I went the same way to seek for a place to climb back up..." he sighed. "it was all so.." he paused, searching for the right word.
"Distressing?" Daed supplied, nodding in understanding. "So it's hard to say exactly where this attack happened. We'll just keep going, and..with caution." he advised, glancing after the crow as it took off. In his peripheral vision, he saw that Dinen had also observed it leaving. He was probably wondering the same as Daed; whether it was simply a curious bird, or if it were spying on them for some purpose. "What do you make of that?" He asked softly, to Dinen.
Gladhron glanced after the bird, then back at the older man. "It's only a crow..." He mentioned, despite not having been asked his opinion.
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 11:00 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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Dínen
Between Bree and the Forsaken Inn
@Rillewen

As the younger ranger spoke, Dínen nodded, everything he said, and chose not to say, seemed to confirm his suspicions. He began to wonder what the orcs were doing in the area and why they had ambushed the two young rangers. Was this just orc mischief? Or were they serving a higher command, the stirrings and rumors had gotten progressively more dire since the encounter with the spiders ten years prior. Dínen frowned at the thought, troubled by his lack of knowledge. He tried to refocus his attention on divining where the ambush had occurred.

When Gladhron described that they were going to Chetwood but that he wasn't sure which direction he had come from in order to find Gwestion, Dínen paused trying to consider how they might triangulate the location. Without further information it would be guesswork or they would have to try both directions, but perhaps another question, appropriately devised, could enlighten them further. Since they knew which direction Gwestion and Gladhron had been traveling in and they knew the point at which he had escaped the ravine, where they were now, if they assumed that Gwestion had run, more or less, straight from the ambush point to the ravine if they knew which direction, relative to their path towards Chetwood, in which Gwestion had run then they would be able to determine which way to go in order to return to the point of ambush.

"When you were ambushed on the road, which direction did your brother run?" perhaps if Gladhron closed his eyes and pictured the ambush he could picture his brother running in a direction with respect to the way they were traveling (to Chetwood) and that would help them decide which way to follow back from the ravine to the point of ambush. Dínen peered down the path of the ravine from Lillawen. He could see that the escarpment became steeper in both directions which did not provide him with any further information as to which direction Gladhron could have come from.

It did not come as a surprise to Dínen that Daed had also noticed the crow, but that did not come to ease his concern, in fact it had the opposite effect. He nodded his head gravely. "It's been following us for some time" he said, for Gladhron's sake, "a curious young crow or perhaps something more sinister. Orcs don't work with crows, unless they both serve a higher authority" he added, the last part with some severity. It would not have been the first time that orcs had been rallied under a higher authority but he did not expect that any of them had any desire for this to be another of those times, even if the rumors all seemed to indicate this perilous truth. For a moment Dínen's thoughts returned to his earlier question: was this just orc mischief or was this the beginning of coming more organized and dangerous orc raids led by a higher more powerful authority?

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@Romeran

Daedhrochon "Daed" and Gladhron

Somewhere in the woods, within a day's ride from the Forsaken Inn

"He didn't run.." Gladhron frowned as he tried to think. He glanced around as they continued onward. "Or...well, I don't think he did? We got separated right off.. he was knocked off his horse, mine ran for a ways, and then.. one of the orcs pulled me out of the saddle." He nodded slightly as he recalled those details. "Then she bolted again when they did this," he indicated the mostly-healed cut on the horse's hip. "Gwestion and I were some ways from each other, at that point. By the time I had killed all of my orcs... I couldn't find him, though I saw evidence that he had slain many orcs, himself." He sighed, shaking his head. "It must be further on, since we haven't found the spot yet." He glanced again in the direction the bird had flown, frowning slightly at this. "What higher power would a crow work for?" He murmured, puzzled by this. Surely, not the dark lord.

"There are plenty of enemies of which you may not be aware," Daed commented quietly. "Did you never listen to anything your father taught you?" He wondered, somewhat puzzled by this. He knew Gwedhion well enough to know that the man would have taught his son just as well as he once did his brother, in all these matters, before letting him go out on his own. Yet, he seemed to know very little about some things.

Gladhron fidgeted slightly. "I listened," he insisted. "I don't recall him ever saying anything about crows serving our enemies, though." He frowned. "What would you know about my father, anyway?" He frowned and looked away. Turning his gaze down at his horse, he noticed she appeared jittery about something. "Shh, what is it, Gaeroch?" He murmured softly, frowning as he stroked the chestnut mare lightly on the neck. He glanced back, noticing Mael was acting similarly.

Daed was a little caught off-guard by that remark, and opened his mouth partly, but couldn't find the words to answer. This.. didn't seem the time to inform him of things that would come as a great surprise to Gladhron, and so he refrained from what he wanted to say. "You mentioned he had taken you along on some missions, earlier. He must have taught you something," He pointed out, instead, as Gladhron glanced toward him again.

"Shh," Gladhron motioned to the horses, then glanced around. "Something is making them nervous," He spoke in a hushed tone. "There may be-" He trailed off, catching a small glimpse of movement in the forest a short ways ahead. "Look, there ahead of us...I saw something move." He whispered, unsure what it could be.

Frowning, Daed instead glanced around at the forest nearer to them, suddenly feeling uneasy, himself, one hand absently moving to rest on his sword hilt. Before he had a chance to do anything else, however, the danger presented itself quite suddenly. Several orcs burst from hiding, shouting as they leaped toward the three travelers from behind, while ahead of them, more orcs emerged from the trees and advanced, sneering in delight at their apparent 'catch'.
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 10:59 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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Dínen
Between Bree and the Forsaken Inn
@Rillewen

It was clear from Gladhron's descriptions that the young man had mostly paid attention to his own affairs when they had been ambushed and had not been able to track where his brother had gone or how he had arrived there. It wasn't something that was terribly surprising especially since Gladhron was still young and relatively inexperienced and it was hard enough keeping track of oneself let alone companions. He listened to Gladhron's explanation of the events, but could not piece together any useful information. Dínen decided that it would be fruitless to continue pressing the young ranger with questions, it was unlikely to help them arrive at a conclusion. At the question about the crow, Dínen went to answer but Daed spoke before he did. Dínen decided he didn't have anything to add, although he had some mild guesses as to who might have sent the crow, if indeed it had been a spy in the first place and not simply a curious young crow.

The back and forth between Gladhron and Daed concerning Gwedhion seemed further evidence to Dínen's earlier suspicion that Daed and Gladhron may have been related through Gwedhion somehow. The similarity in physical appearance was undeniable and it was now clear Daed indeed knew Gwedhion although strangely Gladhron did not seem to know. Dínen wondered what would have caused such an estrangement and thought perhaps that his theory of relation may not be true. It seemed odd that Gladhron wouldn't know his own family. Lillawen stirred and exhaled violently from her nose. Gladhron's horse too seemed to be agitated. Dínen reached for his bow instinctively, it was a recurve bow designed specially for archery on horseback and Dínen was a particularly talented horse-archer. His right hand dropped to the quiver strapped to Lillawen and he reached for an arrow. Gladhron had noticed as he called for them to be quiet and Dínen nodded. For what the boy lacked in observational skills he certainly made up for in reading the signs of his horse, that was something Dínen could respect.

Scanning back and forth across the tree line, Dínen was looking for signs of movement. It was easier to notice strange movements by varying the point of focus across an area. Dínen saw the same movement that Gladhron had, but he had been able to see what had moved. "yrch!" he exclaimed in an almost hushed tone, simultaneously nocking and drawing an arrow.

As the first orc bounded forth from the tree line, Dínen's arrow found its mark and struck the orc square between the eyes. The immense power behind the arrow was sufficient to penetrate the orc's thick skull and simultaneously knock the, now dead, orc back into a tree with a thud. The two orcs next to the felled orc looked in concern at how quickly their ally had fallen, but the orcs still outnumbered the rangers by a considerable margin and they were not daunted.

The orcs continued to advance, brandishing wicked swords and spears cruelly, intrepid and vicious. Much to Dínen's delight, the orcs did not appear, at least those that had presented themselves, to have any mounts. By contrast the three rangers did. "Stay mounted, don't let them draw you into a thicket. We have the mobility advantage, hit and run or shoot, do not stay engaged" Dínen looked to Gladhron as he said these things, expecting that Daed likely would have already assessed the ranger's advantage. As he spoke, Dínen nocked and drew another arrow. This shot missed its mark and struck one of the larger orcs in the shoulder. While the force of the blow knocked him backwards, the orc was big enough to stay on his feet, snapping the end of the arrow with a snarl yelling something in an orcish tongue which Dínen did not understand. Dínen tapped Lillawen with his heels and they backed away from the orcs, trotting to keep their distance as Dínen nocked another arrow.

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@Romeran

Daedhrochon "Daed" and Gladhron

Somewhere in the woods, within a day's ride from the Forsaken Inn

The instant the orcs made their appearance, Daed's sword whipped out from the scabbard and struck down an orc who was foolish enough to leap toward him. He wished he still had a bow, but the last one he'd carried had gotten damaged in a fight, and he hadn't managed to find another yet. If he'd thought of it before leaving the inn, he would have asked if he might bring Gwestion's bow along.

Snatching his bow from where he kept it stowed, Gladhron gave a slight nod at Dinen's words, glancing around as he put an arrow to his string. The orc that had failed to succumb to Dinen's arrow, he chose for his target, taking careful aim. It was a bit more difficult, while on Gaeroch. The mare shifted nervously as the orcs continued to advance, but Gladhron finally felt good about his shot and let it fly, waiting until the orc was in mid-shout. His bow wasn't quite as powerful as Dinen's apparently was, but his arrow struck the orc in the throat through his open mouth. Gladhron breathed a sigh of relief as the orc's advance faltered, and he choked on his own blood before dropping to the ground.

Yet, in the time it took him to steady his aim and fire, four more orcs had rushed toward him. With a shrill whinny, Gaeroch reared in fright, her front legs windmilling the air in front of her. One of the orcs took a hoof to the head, knocking him down to the ground. Another darted off to the side to avoid the dangerous zone, while two others ducked to the horse's other side. The first one was trampled under her hooves, no longer a threat. Gladhron glanced from one side to the other, momentarily unsure what to do, but two orcs seemed more of a threat than one, so he turned to his right, where the two were. With the end of his bow, he jabbed at one of the orcs' faces and was pleased to note it grabbing for its eye. He had little chance to savor that satisfaction before swiftly drawing an arrow to shoot the second. Meanwhile, the third approached Gladhron's other side, swinging a jagged, curved sword with a sneer.

Seeing the orc about to attack while Gladhron's attention was diverted to his other side, Daed urged his horse around and stabbed with all his strength, his sword impaling the orc through the middle before it could harm Gladhron's undefended side. "Get back!" He ordered, yanking his blade from the foul corpse.

Gladhron, by then, had shot the one orc and the other was just recovering from the jab to the eye. He and Daed retreated back slightly, following Dinen's lead. "There's more of them now," Gladhron frowned. There were definitely more orcs this time than when he and Gwestion were ambushed, and he was very glad he hadn't come on his own, after all. Even with three of them, he wondered whether there were too many orcs for them to fight.

"They're trying to surround us," Daed acknowledged with a grim smile. "They're trying to herd us toward the ravine, I think." An orc leaped toward him, swinging a sword, but he blocked that with his own blade, knocking the orc's sword aside, and countered by swinging his sword back toward its neck, and the head went rolling away as the body fell to the ground. Mael snorted and trotted a few steps away. Daed patted her lightly, trying to calm the nervous horse, though she seemed a bit calmer than Gaeroch. He glanced back, trying to remain conscious of how far from the ledge they were, and wondered if the orcs might be trying to drive them toward it. "Don't get too close to the edge," He called to Gladhron, assuming Dinen would already know that... Gladhron probably did too, but it never hurt to call out a reminder in case either of them had forgotten how near it was.

Glancing around, Gladhron took note of where the edge of the ravine was in relation to their position. After how badly injured his brother had been after falling down there, he wanted to make sure he didn't suffer the same fate. He fired another arrow into the cluster of orcs, then another, and another as swiftly as he could, changing direction each time in an attempt to make them keep a bit of distance. "What if we could turn it around on them somehow?" He suggested, using Sindarin so that none of the orcs might understand his words, yet the other two rangers ought to. "Drive them off the ledge, or trick them somehow..?" He asked, frowning as he tried to think how to make that happen.
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 11:41 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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Dínen
Between Bree and the Forsaken Inn
@Rillewen

As Dínen and Lillawen turned and trotted away from the incoming orcs, he drew another arrow from the quiver at his saddle side. Dínen was now behind both of the other rangers and his aim would have to consider their movements. He nocked the arrow and watched his surroundings. Gladhron was handling himself well and when he went to fire at an orc which was threatening the young ranger Daed was already there to defend him.

The arrow instead was aimed at another orc who was breaking the ranks and getting closer to the other two rangers. With surprising force the arrow struck the orc through his agape mouth who gurgled as he fell and died. Suddenly Lillawen was spooked and leaped aside. Dínen swiveled his head behind him just in time to see the orcs who were beginning to surround them. One of them had broken the file of circling orcs and was getting closer. Clearly eager to take a shot at an unsuspecting ranger.

Without letting go of his bow, Dínen reached down to the sheath attached to his saddle and drew his sword. Lifting his left arm up, Dínen thrust down at an angle across his body as the orc approached stopping Lillawen suddenly so that the orc arrived sooner than he had expected. The orc stumbled into Dínen’s waiting sword and the ranger had to yank his sword free before returning it to its sheath. Gladhron and Daed had noticed the orcs were circling them. Closer to where Dínen was the line of orcs was thinner and had not yet closed.

Quickly we must charge through the line there!” He said switching into the sindarin tongue along with Gladhron, pointing his bow towards his target and turning Lillawen. He drew another arrow with his right hand. “Break the line and keep at a canter. When the orcs break formation and chase, let them, and when they are strung loosely apart we turn on them as they file in” if they were lucky they could chase the slower orcs off the ravine after they turned. “It’s a classic Rohirric cavalry tactic” he said in attempt to inspire confidence, and confession that he had not invented the tactic. The feigned retreat and counter attack was especially effective when mounted, even more so with horse archers, but required skilled riders to execute en masse.

As Dínen charged forward towards the closing but thinnest line of orcs he shot one more arrow into the closest orc in the forming circle, killing him immediately. In a smooth practiced motion Dínen dropped his bow into the saddle sheath and drew his sword, switching his reigns to his left hand as he pressed Lillawen forward even faster. He did not risk a glance behind him to see if Gladhron and Daed were following. The line of orcs held as Dínen approached but it was only one or two orcs wide at best and the force of Lillawen’s great strides along with the flashing blade of Dínen allowed him to break through the circle of orcs. He hoped that Gladhron and Daed were able to follow but he continued on, returning his sword to its sheath again and picking up his bow, hoping to shoot down the fastest orcs as the rangers feigned their retreat.

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@Romeran

Daedhrochon "Daed" and Gladhron

Somewhere in the woods, within a day's ride from the Forsaken Inn

“Quickly, we must charge through the line there!"

Gladhron glanced over, and saw the place Dinen was speaking of, and gave a brief nod in recognition of his plan. The ranger was right, it was a Rohirrim cavalry move. Gladhron had spoken with his cousin before about such things, and Léored had told him of just such a tactic. As Dinen took the lead, Gladhron had but to tap his heels on Gaeroch's sides, and she took off after Lillawen. He switched to his sword, just like Dinen had done, and slashed a few orcs that tried to leap toward them as he passed. As he got closer to the orcs, he urged Gaeroch to go faster and keep up with Lillawen.

Following closely behind the other two, Daed noticed the orcs trying to rush toward them. He wasn't sure if they guessed their intentions from Dinen's motion, pointing to the spot with his bow, or what, but they were trying to close together in that spot and prevent them from getting out of their circle. But they couldn't hope to stand up against the three mounted rangers. He moved Mael to run beside Gaeroch, leaving little space for the orcs to try and slip between the two horses. On his left side, his sword slashed at any orcs who dared draw near, and soon they were past the orcs.

They yelled in their own foul language, either swearing or giving orders to one another, Daed wasn't sure, but he could tell they were unhappy about the rangers having gotten past their ranks. He grinned to himself and took a glance to check on Gladhron, making sure the youngest member of their party was alright. The orcs were pursuing, which was no surprise. "Get your bow!" He called to Gladhron, again wishing he had one. There were a couple of orcs trying to come at him. Having only his sword, he had to wait until they were near enough, but then, Mael snapped at the nearest one, surprising Daed almost as much as the orc. The orc let out a shriek as the horse tossed him to one side.. and over the edge of the nearby ravine. Daed couldn't help laughing as he dealt with the other orc, and patted the horse's neck. "Good girl, Mael." he grinned, wondering if anyone had trained the horse to do such a thing.

Gladhron focused on his aim, trying to keep Gaeroch from moving around too much. He should have spent more time practicing shooting from the saddle, he thought idly, as he took aim at a fast-approaching orc. He fired, but the shot missed. Thankfully, it did at least hit the orc behind it, but not a killing blow. He swiftly grabbed another arrow and tried again, trying to thin the numbers as much as he could, but there were a lot of them. He grabbed another arrow, taking out another orc that was running toward Daed. "How will we get them over the ravine?" He wondered, glancing briefly toward the other two rangers, trying to visualize this plan a little more clearly in his head.
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 10:59 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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Dínen
Between Bree and the Forsaken Inn
@Rillewen

As the orcs began to chase, Dínen continued to shoot them from horseback, turning his torso to shoot behind Lillawen as she cantered away at a moderate pace. If the orcs had much practice fighting cavalry, which they likely did not, they might have known that the horses could have fled at a much faster pace. But it was lucky for Dínen and the two other rangers that the orcs were not so clever. Two orcs fell to Dínen's relentless arrows as they chased after them, and several more fell to Gladhron and Daed.

The further that the riders fled the more the orc formation turned into a disorganized race, with each orc running his fastest to catch the "fleeing" rangers. With little regard for their position, the orcs had lost any notion of an encircling formation and were scattered apart such that a horse could easily ride between orcs and cut them down on each side. Seeing that the orcs were so disarrayed now in chase after their prey, Dínen smiled grimly.

"See now their formation has broken" he said in the elvish tongue "they think we flee and they wish to catch us. But now they are easy prey for a return charge" he explained. Dínen sheathed his bow now, returning it to the leather sheath in the side of his saddle. The recurve bow was small and a good fit for horse archery. "On my count, draw swords, and turn around to charge back at the orcs. If they form rank again we feign retreat once more, if they flee we chase them to the ravine" Dínen instructed. Dínen was no officer or leader among the rangers, but he knew that in combat if someone took the initiative it was best to fight together.

"Three. Two. One. NOW!" he exclaimed and with sudden urgency, Lillawen responded almost immediately to his command and turned about-face. Dínen drew his sword once more from his sheath and the thin blade shone brightly. Lillawen showed her speed to the orcs as despite the moderate distance they had been apart from them before the rangers turned, the sword of Dínen was on the orcs sooner than the first ones had time to realize. Dínen swung his sword cutting through the first orc on his right side before immediately crossing his sword to the left to bring down a second. The first orcs had not expected the riposte and were easy prey, but the further they charged into the orcs the more likely it was that they might try to form ranks to stop them.

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@Romeran

Daedhrochon "Daed" and Gladhron

Somewhere in the woods, within a day's ride from the Forsaken Inn

Hearing the plan explained a little better, Gladhron nodded. His cousin had told him about this tactic, but he'd never actually seen it done, much less participated in it. He felt a little more positive about pulling it off now that he knew the plan, yet still worried about how outnumbered the three of them were.

"It'll work, believe me," Daed muttered softly, noticing a somewhat uncertain look on the young man's face. He smiled, trying to inspire more confidence, and waited for Daed's count. When he reached three, Daed drew his sword rapidly and charged toward the nearest orcs with a yell, eager to cut down as many of these foul beings as he could. Without a bow, this was the only way he could help thin their numbers, and he was eager to do that.

With his sword in hand, Gladhron struck down an orc who got too close, and urged his horse to go after another, feeling more confident in his skills with the blade, rather than the bow. As the three rangers worked together to slay as many of their foes as dared get within reach of their blades, Gladhron was relieved to see the odds changing in their favor. He wasn't used to fighting on horseback, but it was easier than shooting a bow from horseback, and he struck down orc after orc, grinning at the success of their tactic, so far.

Hoping that Gladhron had enough training with the sword he carried to know how to use it, Daed focused on cutting down as many orcs as he could. He tried to keep an eye on his young nephew, but the fighting limited his ability to do so. He would have to trust that his brother taught his son as well as he'd taught Daed, once upon a time. He plowed his way further into the ranks of orcs, slashing and stabbing, determined to take down as many as he could. Once, Mael actually kicked a pair of orcs that tried to come up behind her, and he grinned to himself as he caught a glimpse of them flying through the air behind the horse. The orcs were starting to gather together again, he noticed after a while, and trying to converge together around him.

Time to pull back, if it wasn't too late, he realized. He had gone a bit further into their midst than he meant to, without realizing how far he'd gotten from the other two. Impaling an orc as it leaped in close, attempting to harm the horse, rather than the ranger, Daed realized that she was in more danger than himself. The orcs must have concluded their best option might be to slay the horses, then the rangers would be easier to pick off. Mael was growing more nervous as she tried to extricate herself from the cluster of orcs, but they seemed intent on preventing Daed from rejoining the other two. "Don't worry, Mael, we'll get out of this," He muttered, unsure whether the horse understood elvish or not. He continued trying to find an opening to break through the orcs, while keeping up his attacks to ensure none of the orcs got too close.
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 10:59 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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Dínen
Between Bree and the Forsaken Inn
@Rillewen

Caution came easily to Dínen who did not pursue the orcs with quite as much vigor as Daed and Gladhron had. Which is why he found himself further away from the other two as the orcs slowly began to reform. Dínen had eliminated all of the orcs in his vicinity and was looking around for other straggling orcs when he noticed that they were forming rank again. He was about to call out to Gladhron and Daed when he noticed that they were some distance away from him now.

"We should retreat now!" he called using the Sindarin tongue, hoping at least Gladhron might hear him. But as he took greater stock of the situation it seemed that the orcs around Dead, who had driven much deeper into their ranks, were becoming wise to anti-cavalry tactics and were targeting his horse. Dínen breathed in sharply, if they took out Daed's horse it would be trouble for the three of them. While they had thinned the ranks of the orcs somewhat now, there were still too many of them to fight especially on foot and surrounded.

Thinking quickly, Dínen sheathed his sword quickly at his side and retrieved his stashed bow at the other leg. In a smooth action he pulled an arrow form the quiver and drew the bow. Dínen squeezed his legs and maneuvered Lillawen around to get a better shot.

"Daed turn left!" he called out quickly to Daed as he took sight of the orc closest to Daed's mount. He was aiming to shoot down the closest orc to give Daed some space. As the orc was on Dead's right, turning left would give Dínen a safer shot at the target. Dínen took in a breath and held it, taking sight. He hoped that Daed would react left, or at least stand still, so that the arrow would strike the orc. Dínen loosed his arrow and it flew towards the nearest orc to Daed. If the arrow struck true, Daed might have enough time to turn and escape the encircling orcs and the three rangers might attempt to repeat the tactic. If the arrow did not strike true, Dínen was already preparing another and hoped they would not have to charge into a recovering orc formation.

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@Romeran

Daedhrochon "Daed" and Gladhron

Somewhere in the woods, within a day's ride from the Forsaken Inn

Mentally cursing his idiotic mistake, Daed was busy fending off his multiple attackers while searching for an escape route. Mael was losing her cool, straining at the reigns and growing agitated. She was clearly getting spooked by all those orcs surrounding her, and Daed couldn't really blame the mare. Hearing Dinen call out to turn left, Daed swiftly reacted, nudging the horse to swing toward the left. A moment later, an orc dropped, and Daed's sword took care of another that tried to fill its place. Mael saw the opening and, without needing to be guided, leaped clear and bolted away from danger.

Gladhron grew worried, watching this all unfold. While Dinen was helping Daed, the younger ranger noticed a couple of the orcs trying to sneak around toward them. Swiftly nocking an arrow to the string, he took careful aim before firing, taking one of them down. He was readying another arrow but had lost sight of the other orc. Frowning, he paused as Mael and Daed flew by at top speed, and was glad they'd managed to get away from the orcs... but now the whole group was rushing toward them. He put his bow away for the moment, urging Gaeroch to follow after Daed before the orcs caught up, trusting that Dinen would do the same. Having seen the predicament Daed had gotten into, Gladhron wasn't keen on copying him in that.

It took a little doing, but Daed finally got Mael to slow down to a walk, then stopped and turned around to see how things were going. Gladhron soon caught up and joined him, looking relieved. "I was worried for a moment there," he stated, grabbing his bow once more.
"I know, it was stupid, I should have known better than to get so carried away." Daed answered, frustrated with himself.
"Well, that too," Gladhron answered with a small nod before loosing an arrow at their foes. "But what I meant was, for a moment, I was worried you'd lost control of Mael. She looked terrified, and I thought she might not respond to you in her fright."
"Ah...yes, so was I, for a moment. Shoot a little faster, Gladhron, or they'll be upon us again before we've had a chance to catch our breaths."
Nodding, Gladhron tried to focus on speed slightly more than aim; since there were so many of them so close together, it didn't really matter so much.
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 10:59 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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Dínen
Between Bree and the Forsaken Inn
@Rillewen

There wasn't enough time for Dínen to confirm whether Dead and Mael would escape the orcs before Dínen himself had to turn Lillawen and continue the retreat from the orcs who were slowly returning to form. Using his legs to guide Lillawen he nudged her into a canter again as he strung another arrow without looking. Turning quickly, Dínen risked another shot into the crowd of orcs trusting that Lillawen would continue to run them away from the oncoming orcs. Dínen couldn't see Daed anymore he hoped at least that meant that Daed and Mael had escaped from the orcs and not the opposite. The shot flew from his arrow again but Dínen did not have time to watch to see if it found his mark as he turned around to keep his eyes ahead.

Several paces in front of him now he spotted Daed and Mael come galloping past and Dínen let out a relived sigh. Galadhron was nearby as well and at this point Dínen himself was now the closest one to the orcs. Dínen was able to overhear only a few remarks between Gladhron and Daed as he was too focused on trying to watch the orcs. Several of them had tried to make a surrounding move and Gladhron had spotted them. Dínen cursed. The orcs were gaining on them, he was always surprised at how quickly they moved on foot.

"No time to wait" he shouted in Sindarin "continue the retreat." Dínen hadn't even had to make the statement as Daed and Gladhron had quickly caught on to the tactic and were already galloping away shooting behind them when they could risk it. Dínen stayed at the rear this time as he was practiced on horseback and felt confident he could outmaneuver any particularly eager orcs. Shortly after Dínen had made his third shot behind him he saw that the orcs were begining to string out again losing their formation. Dínen turned his attention ahead of them. Squinting in the distance he saw what he believed was the cliff into the ravine again and his heart leapt into his throat.

"Is that the ravine again up ahead?" he called out in Sindarin in concerned tone "did we accidentally veer off course or does the ravine wrap around?" Dínen cursed that he hadn't kept enough track of where they were and wished that he had spent more time patrolling this particular region rather than spending most of his time wandering eastward beyond the regions of Arnor. They were rapidly approaching it now. "I guess we have two choices" he said, as they got closer and closer and Dínen had encouraged Lillawen to move to catch the other two rangers "We turn on them again and try to ride them down" this would continue their tactic but the risk was if they needed another retreat they would have to retreat into the ravine. "Or we turn away from the ravine and hope the orcs haven't moved to encircle us again" even if the orcs had tried to encircle them it was possible they could break the line, but their tactic of hit and run would become more difficult as they would no longer be retreating directly away from the orcs but rather laterally, reducing the distance the orcs had to run to catch them. "What do you think?" he asked Daed and Gladhron urgently.

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Daedhrochon "Daed" and Gladhron

Glancing ahead, Gladhron saw the edge of the cliff looming ahead, or rather, where the ground dropped away and one could only presume was a long drop. His memory of this place was still a bit fuzzy, considering the circumstances, but he had a little better knowledge of it than the older two, having been there only a couple of weeks ago. "It wraps around," He answered Dinen, also using Sindarin, and hoping his memory of the place was correct. "But it should also be growing less steep, pretty soon." He frowned, and shot an arrow toward the orcs. There were fewer to shoot at, as many were falling behind the few who kept close behind them. Unused to shooting from a moving horse, his arrow missed the orc he was aiming at, but it carried on and grazed another orc somewhere behind that one.

Thinking on the information Gladhron had given, Daed considered the two options DInen had suggested. "What if we turn as if to run them down, and herd them toward the ravine?" He suggested. "It might drive them over the edge."
Catching onto the idea Daed suggested, Gladhron grinned. "Yes, it may still be steep enough here to kill most of them on the way down. Those which aren't killed, at least it'll take them a while to rejoin the battle, and we may be rid of most of them." He hoped, at least. Realizing that his supply of arrows was diminishing, he decided not to fire any more of them without having a good, clear shot.
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 10:58 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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Dínen
Between Bree and the Forsaken Inn
@Rillewen

The oncoming orcs had thinned significantly since they had originally been surrounded. Although the tactic hadn't been pulled off with perfect accuracy, it had performed well enough Dínen observed as he shot another arrow into the orcs. He was similarly glad that Gladrhon was more familiar with the terrain than he was and that he hadn't gotten completely turned around during the tactical retreat. "Less steep but steeper than I imagine we'd like to ride down?" he asked mostly rhetorically. Dínen was now anxiously watching as the orcs continued their approach, waiting to see if either of the other rangers had any suggestions.

Riding the Orcs down was a good idea and Dínen nodded. "A good commander knows when to charge" he said in agreement. "At this rate I'm running low on arrows" he added, looking down at the sheath strapped to the side of Lillawen. There were still a handful of arrows left, but not enough for a prolonged battle and Dínen never liked to spend his arrows completely if he could avoid it. He considered a final shot before deciding against it and sheathing the bow in the saddle sheath next to the arrows.

The sword attached to the sheath at Dínen's other hip was plain in character, long enough to be used two handed and with a sufficiently long handle but thin and light enough to be used in one hand as he did on horseback. Drawing his sword, Dínen turned to the other two rangers as they readied themselves.

"On your mark" he said, looking over at Daed and waiting.

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@Romeran

Daedhrochon "Daed" and Gladhron


Glancing toward Gladhron, Daed checked that the young man was ready. Seeing a nod from him, he took a deep breath to prepare himself as well. "Now!" Wasting no time, he turned Mael about and charged toward the orcs once more, hoping this would work out as they planned. The horses couldn't keep running forever, they would grow tired, and may stumble and then the rangers would be in real trouble. Daed's sword slashed downward as he cut down an orc who had been foolish enough to get ahead of the others.

Gladhron swiftly put away his bow and drew his sword, joining Daed in the charge toward the enemy. He saw a handful of orcs trying to break away and head away from the gorge, and turned his horse toward them. Slashing as he rode, he was pleased to see the small group forced to retreat in the other direction, toward where the ravine curved around. Perhaps they could force the orcs toward the place where the ravine curved around, and then keep pressing on until they had nowhere to go but down. That, as he understood it, was Daed's plan, and he liked it.

"Keep them close together, Daed called, using Sindarin still. He had helped herd livestock a few times in his life, and it wasn't tremendously different, he thought with a bit of amusement. Except sheep and cows didn't carry weapons and try to slay you while you were herding them... A grim smile stuck on his face as he entertained such thoughts, while stabbing an orc who tried to bolt past him. He swiftly struck down on his other side, seeing an orc with a spear trying to attack Mael. She didn't like that, and reared onto her hind legs briefly, catching the offender in the head with her windmilling hooves. Daed waited until she had settled onto all fours again, and then continued driving the 'herd' toward the brink, determinedly. Soon, if nothing went wrong, he expected that they would begin falling.
Last edited by Rillewen on Fri Mar 01, 2024 10:58 am, edited 2 times in total.
"I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

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