Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[piosenniel]

Durelin's post

As leaves were disturbed in the underbrush of the forest, a cold finger came down to touch Calenvása’s skin and run down his neck. The drop of dew had clung to the leaves well into the morning, hiding from the sunlight of the early morning. The elf forced himself to remain still, though a tremor threatened to run through his body and his hand desired to brush away the itchy stream of water. As he had come to learn after years of practice, becoming someone else was the only way to escape feelings. Calenvása let his mind focus on what his eyes observed, and let it free to view the scene from whatever direction it wished. It of course was impossible for his mind to literally wander freely; it felt so odd only because this was true serenity.

What his eyes observed through thick growth and scattered branches and leaves hanging down into his line of sight was, in particular, a rather large orc garbed in an assortment of leather armor that still left quite a bit of dark skin bare sit and sharpen a huge slab of metal that was obviously thought of as a sword. Not two feet away another orc stood; and another; and another. It had been quite some time since this many dark creatures had been gathered in one spot. In this case, their numbers were so great that they had to gather outside the forest. Because of this, Calenvása could not get close enough to see how large a force was actually gathered here. But his eyes proved keen enough to tell that this was an army, and one comprised of thousands of orcs…

A flash of gold far away before him and to the right caught Calenvása’s eye. An army comprised of thousands of orcs…and southrons, and, as always, easterlings, too. A more sophisticated type of armor could only mean that evil Men were a part of this force as well. That was to be expected, of course, if this force was meant to carry out specific orders. These specific orders were one of the most important things to be learned from observing this force. For now, though, the most specific Calenvása wished to get was what this army’s destination was.

Calenvása decided to break the serenity and turn his head slowly to each side. He could see the elves that crouched beside him and behind him in the underbrush. They had been intently observing the movements of every single creature assemble among the swiftly clearing trees on the edge of the forest, but Calenvása’s slight movement had brought their eyes to him. Slowly bringing his hand up where it would be visible to all around him, he motioned to them and gestured behind him. They would need to meet to discuss their observations and decide on a plan of action.

One by one the elves moved deeper into the forest, deeper into the cover of the trees. Calenvása waited quiet and still for several minutes to make sure that he was the last to move. All the while his thoughts tried to piece together any clues he might have seen, going through the pictures in his searching for any information that was not obvious. All the while he could only wonder which route the army would take. Would they head north, to attack the part of Mirkwood still held by his kindred? Or would the army head east and south, to the Golden Wood, a sanctuary of beauty and home of his brothers?

It had been several years now in which the darkness had been growing, and the role of Calenvása and these elves as scouts had become of dire importance. Much rested in the hands of Calenvása, who had been given command of this scout troop or Mirkwood. He wished with all his heart to help Mirkwood fight back against the Shadow, but he could not help but be discouraged, especially with the image of thousands of orcs assembled just outside the boughs of his home.

Finally feeling that he had given his comrades enough time to make their way a safe distance from the creatures that so tainted the forest, he carefully made his way through the underbrush still in a crouch, and sheathed his belt knife as he did so. He had felt safer with it in his hand as he kept his eye on that orc sharpening his sword.

[piosenniel]

Arvedui III's post

He always liked this time of day best, and a thrill ran down his spine as the rest of the scout troop crouched among the shrubs and underbrush. The uncouth sounds of metal and iron shod moving in unison and the familiar but slightly harsh sounds of a force breaking came, filling him with mingled excitement and dread. This was a hunter's dream, this abundance of game. And yet, it was also quite disturbing that a troop he could not see the end of was moving near Mirkwood. His blue eyes flickered from one orc to another, not lingering on the grime and blackness of their arms, armor, their very skin.

Targil lithely rubbed the grey pommel of the dirk that hung by his side, taking care to make any noise in the dewy morn, grinning quietly at the prospect of the hunt to come. Well, if the captain thought it well to hunt. There was a great many of the foul creatures, but Targil had learned long ago that a good elf was worth at least twenty orcs. Perhaps he was being far too keen, and mentally berated himself for jumping to conclusions again. Whatever Calenvasa thought best to do was what he would do. Yet, of all the officers he has served with, that one was the most pensive. It tried his nerves sometimes, but most of the time the captain was right, so Targil was grateful for the exercise in patience.

A figure with golden armor passed and joined a party of about ten other similarly clad forms, apparently forming up for drill. Targil frowned. Orcs were one thing, but men were an entirely different matter. Now he gave up any thoughts of a hunt this morning. It would be folly to go after such a large party, he finally realized. His brow knotted in frustration as he sensed this troop of orcs and men were far beyond his area of expertise. So much was lately, it shouldn't have surprised him. If orcs and men were marching together, the reason for their marching had to be great, and so too must be their numbers. The group they had spotted today was probably naught more than a detachment in a host far more vast. The thought sent chills down his spine.

Quiet suddenly, he sensed his captain moving, and quickly looked over to see what was happening. Calenvasa glanced briefly around at the small band he commanded, and then motioned to withdraw further into the woods. Targil couldn't have been more grateful for the respite from the tenseness of the underbrush. He turned and tread softly back, making sure to give distance between himself and the other scouts. Relaxing and trusting his ingrained sense of stealth would protect him, Targil glanced back toward the vanishing camp, fear now being replaced by apprehension. He stopped, crouching between two roots, and looked to his captain, and then around at the others. All of them glanced nervously around at each other, each elf not daring to brake the silence, wondering what was to be done about the day's discovery.

Targil only hoped one of them knew, for he surely did not.

[piosenniel]

Firefoot's post

The Orc army was illumined in the late-morning sun - but not him. He was crouched in the dense underbrush of the forest, hidden in the shadows and invisible to all save the other Mirkwood scouts nearby. Careful not to make a sound, he crept forward and slightly to the right to get a better view of the Orcs he was watching. Cold hatred gleamed in his gray eyes. He reached up and fingered the feathered end of an arrow in his quiver. It was of no use at the moment, but later... then the Orcs would die, pierced with arrows.

Thorvel refocused himself on what he was supposed to be doing: observing the Orcs. The army stretched away in both directions, and from his vantage point he could not see either end. He had never seen so many in one place before. Smaller bands of Orcs, those could be dealt with relatively easily. But this? They had no facts as to what the army was planning on. Thorvel didn’t, anyway. So what are we going to do about it? he wondered. Fight them off, of course. Defeat them. All of his senses revolted at the sounds of thousands of Orcs all arguing in their uncouth languages and the clank of metal on metal.

As he turned his head away to the right, the large group of men garbed in golden armor caught his eye. Southrons! They were only slightly better than the Orcs, in Thorvel’s opinion. If at all. They were better fighters, too, not like the Orcs who delighted in and knew little more than killing. Suddenly the significance of this hit him. They must have some kind of great cause to be gathered together in such a way, and he wondered at that. They obviously had no intention of failing in what ever it was.

He supposed then that their first goal would be figuring out what the army was going to attempt. Were they going to attack his home in Northern Mirkwood? Or would they go after nearby Lorien? Either way, he was determined to fight them to the death.

It wasn’t long before Thorvel perceived his Captain moving in the stillness of the forest. He looked back around to Calenvása on his left and saw the other scouts doing the same. Calenvása lifted his hand and motioned for the scouts to retreat deeper into the forest to their meeting place. He saw some of the other scouts moving slowly away into the forest, disappearing even from his keen Elvish sight. He turned and followed them stealthily away, curving out to his left in order to maintain his distance from the others.

Thorvel came upon the other Elves and stood against a tree. His muscles were tense and he was at attention, aware of everything that was going on. His face was hard and his chin was set firmly, and his eyes, though flecked with uneasiness, held a smoldering fire. He took note of the other Elves waiting around. All of them were on edge, ready for anything. The final stragglers wandered in, and last of all came Calenvása. Thorvel considered him a bit queer, but he trusted that Calenvása could come up with a solid plan against the Orcs. The silence was complete but for the sounds of the forest around them. He almost spoke, but thought better of it. He could express his opinions later, after the Captain had said his piece.

[piosenniel]

Hama of the Riddermark's post

Lómarandil was hidden under a carpet of leaves. Seeing Calenvása raise his hand, he slid backwards slowly and crawled on his stomach out of earshot of the orcs, then he stood up to a crouch and ran as fast as he could, his light elvish feet making little imprint on the leaves and twigs beneath. Reaching a clearing he sheathed his two knives that he had kept drawn since the orcs had been sighted. He kicked a tree in disgust, “Foul creatures! Utterly worthless hunks of meat!” he spat the last word out with bitterness as he turned to face Dol Guldur. “Damn Morgoth to the deepest pits of misery for creating them!” he said with a sad look on his face.

He sat down and took his bow off his back. He took out a knife and began to carve a design onto it. He smiled as he saw all the others he'd carved over the years. This time he cut out the shape of an orc, incredibly detailed, and carved an arrow going through its head. Chuckling he stared into the woods. He heard a faint crunching sound, like a clumsy foot breaking a twig...

Lomarandil was gone in a flash, up a tree. He looked over and saw an orc, closely followed by two others. Lomarandil smiled as he heard them start to talk, listening intently for any more information.

"Bloody trees!" he heard the orc say, "I hate them, I hate elves as well...stupid bloody animals." Lomarandil couldn't supress a grin as he heard the orc say this. He raised a single eyebrow in mirth, as the orcs continued to talk.

"We gotta stay 'ere for a while." a second orc said. "Them elves mustn't know that we aren't attacking them here." a second orc grunted loudly, "Yar, stoopid elvish tarks can't know we goin' for tha' uther wood, tha' big one!" he said, obviosuly pleased with himself for making this deduction. Lomadrandil nodded slowly. "They are heading for Lothlorien..." he said quietly...

"Hur?" he heard an orc say, "I heard something, stoopid tarks hiding in trees..." he looked up and started to turn in a circle, scanning the treetops for the elf he'd heard. Failing to find him, he grunted loudly and turned back, shouting at the others to follow. Lomarandil breathed out heavily. That was close...he dropped to the ground when he was sure the orcs had gone. Silently he made his way to the designated meeting place, as he entered the clearing he saw the others. "Mae govannan." Calenvasa announced. Lomarandil nodded and walked up to the group...

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial’s post - Koran Cenrbyt

Koran Cenbryt brushed at a curl of dark hair that crept from behind his ear as he leant over his pack, checking for anything he may have forgotten and running over in his head the route that the army would take. West verging a little South from the North side of the fortress, towards the Wood of Golden Leaves, where...

This was not by any means the first expedition he had been on, and neither was it one that he especially wished to be involved with; but, ironically, it was the one that would probably be most important in the future. The young Haradrim warrior shook his head wryly at the thought, his hand reaching to the beaded necklace he wore, feeling the delicate carving of the flame on the central bead. ’I won’t let anything go wrong…the Cenbryt clan is mine, mine by right, and so it shall remain, no matter what my cousins plot and scheme together…

Koran was not against the rest of the clans, of course: such a thought would be foolhardy, especially when his was waning so much, especially in the last few weeks and months – his cousins, although set to gain his clan for their own, were nonetheless slowly eliminating by sending off on foolhardy missions many of the older warriors who were close to Koran. At this rate, if Koran as to fall, they would inherit a clan without any warriors left! Still, although it was of course a diplomatic move that he saw the sense in, Koran nonetheless felt uneasy about the mission – there was something not right, something that was being hidden from him in all this, even though he was commanding the separate force that would then split off from the main army. That would, of course, include orcs – he curled a lip slightly at this. He detested working with them – he steadfastly believed beetles to have more intelligence than the filthy Uruks. And when he was actually meant to be commanding as an equal with one of them…he shook his head again bitterly. If my brothers were still alive…

“Koran Cenbryt?” The words made the warrior look up to see a younger man standing nearby, at a respectful distance. He rose from his crouch to be level with him, squinting against the sun from the high outpost. The man looked to be several years younger than Koran, and had a surprisingly boyish face, although it was currently all seriousness. As Koran rose, wiping one hand on the back of his trousers, the younger man touched the back of two knuckles of his right hand to the centre of his forehead - a respectful salute. Koran inclined his head - the man was obviously not his superior then, although he still didn't know who he was.

"I am Ehan Fazian," the man continued by means of an introduction. "I will be joining you in the force that splits off from the main army and we will, I gather, be together for most of the journey."

Koran nodded again. "Koran Cenbryt," he added, just to introduce himself personally, although the other obviously knew who he was. Ehan grinned suddenly. "Not a man of very many words, hmm?"

Koran, surprised at the casual tone and phrasing, raised an eyebrow, and the other man raised his chin very slightly, defiant if it came to it. Then he grinned. "If we are to fight together, you may think differently by the end," he replied, his voice soft but more friendly now. "Come, we must join the rest of the force - I suppose you know the route already?"

[piosenniel]

Aylwen's post

"Come, we must join the rest of the force - I suppose you know the route already?" Ehan relaxed visibly as the man called Koran began to speak in a more friendly manner. The younger easterling let did not hide his amiable expression anymore, though he had already begun to wonder how well his personality would match Koran's. Ehan feared the worst, perhaps a head-on collision and clash between Koran's persona and Ehan's light-hearted simplicity. Still, Ehan pulled himself from the short look into the future and back into the present where he knew his head always belonged, and decided to cross all bridges when he got to them.

"Of course I do, sir!" Ehan cried gallantly, drawing his rapier dramatically and pointing it in the direction of the pathway that led down to where many easterlings had set up camp. Where the orcs were, Ehan did not know, but the thought intrigued him anyway. Seeing such ugly monstrosities brought rise to the blood-thirsty warrior in Ehan, despite the disappointing fact that these 'ugly monstrosities' would be on his side in this whole expedition. What a shame...to think how much fun I could have slaying those things. But there are other enemies. Snapping out of his reverie and realizing that he still stood motionless with his rapier held in the air, Ehan chuckled, embarrassed, and continued, "Yes, right. Onward!" and sheathed his sword.

Ehan led Koran down the path that went downward from the slight hilltop they had formerly been standing on, even though Ehan realized that Koran must have known the route as well. Trying not to kick up dirt on the excursion to the campsites. Ehan looked back once to see Koran looking off into the distance, and the young man wondered if Koran was in another time and place. When the two reached the bottom of the rocky, dusty hill, Ehan turned to face Koran once again. This time, the man hit Ehan with a question before Ehan could say aught else.

"How many has your clan sent with you?" Koran asked, looking at Ehan momentarily before stealing a glance at the sturdy men (and some women) behind Ehan, all the warriors from different tribes and clans.

"Well...I would imagine close to five and ten men...or, well...maybe almost twenty men and women. You know, the Fazian clan has rather strong-minded and strong-bodied ladies, as well. My sister-" Ehan stammered at first, but what should have just been a simple answer turned into a lengthy explanation. When Ehan noticed that Koran didn't seem to have much time for stories, Ehan quieted. "Yes. Well, I would say fifteen strong men and women come from the Fazian clan."

"Right. Good," Koran mused, a light smile playing on his lips.

This is going to turn out to be very interesting...Ehan thought. Yes, I can tell already.

[Arry]

The day's light was yet fully to come. In the pale hours before dawn, beneath the dense cover of trees and scrubby bushes, Gromwakh and his mates had been entertaining themselves by the dim light of a shuttered lantern. One Uruk knife, a wickedly sharp twisty thing, borrowed from an unwatched pack, was up as ante against two fine wire garrotes with carved bone handles emancipated from the cellars of Dol Guldur. Snikdul had the dice in hand and was just on the verge of throwing them against the flat face of a nearby rock when the snap of a dried twig was heard. The light was quickly doused and bodies scrambled for cover away from the gaming area.

‘Psst! Grom! It’s me!’ came the loud whisper. ‘Show yourself!’

‘Globûrz! You fool!’ hissed Gromwakh coming out from under the mouldering pile of leaves he’d dived under. ‘You were supposed to whistle like a nighthawk to let us know you were coming.’ ‘I forgot!’ shrugged the lumbering Orc stepping into a shadowy pool of filtered moonlight. ‘And anyways . . . I tried to tell you when you set me to guard that I can’t whistle.’ One by one the others crawled from their bolt holes and shuffled near to hear what report Globûrz was making.

‘It was old Kreblug that brought the news,’ he said, leaning on his club, as his companions ringed him. ‘Cost us two cups, but I got it out of him. The front of the army is up and starting to move. Some of the night scouts have come back with something about a small group of Elves nearing the western bank of the Big River at the shallow fording point. Elves out of the yellow leaved wood. Looking to cross over to the trees this side. Fierce fighters I heard, too. Rumour has it they met a whole army of Orcs from out of Moria and dispatched them. Big, tall nasty Elf-man . . . one of them old ones . . . with a blade that bites deep . . . waded through the lot like fire through so much hay. Captains want them taken-like, by us, not killed, to see what they're up to.

‘Us?’ squeaked Snikdul, the alarm on his face mirroring that of his comrades. Visions of some mighty Elf-lord of Old, twenty feet high and growing by the moment in his estimation; with a sword forged from lightning; coming toward them with mighty strides - all this had set him quivering with trepidation.

‘Not ‘us’ us by ourselves,’ Globûrz went on. ‘But all the orcs save the Supply masters and their few helpers are to have the opportunity, as one of the Captains said, to share in the glory of the capture of the Elves for the greater glory of the Master’s plans.’

‘Glory, my great hairy backside!’ growled Gromwakh. ‘They’ll throw us at the nasty creatures first, let them tire themselves out by cutting through our worthless hides, then they’ll take what ever glory there is for themselves. I say we just hang back here and wait for their glorious return.’

‘No can do, Grom. They’re counting heads. And any who aren’t accounted for won’t have their heads to worry about when they get back. Those Uruks are just black-hearted enough to hunt us down for sport if they get wind of it.’

Silence enveloped the little group, accompanied by a certain level of despair, as they hurried back to their little camp near the supply wagons to retrieve their weapons and what meager armour they possessed. Snikdul adjusted his battered helmet on his head and fastened his curved blade to his belt. With his right hand he picked up the long, thick iron rod he favoured. ‘Slash ‘em and bash ‘em!’ he said half-heartedly as he gathered together with his fellows.

‘But from the fringes only,’ came the grim instruction from Gromwakh as he shook his hardwood cudgel toward the direction of the column front. ‘Just keep near me, tight as a tick every one. I’ll figure something out to get us through this.’

I hope . . . he muttered quietly to himself as the little group took off running to join in the required glory of the battle . . .

[Amanaduial the archer]

Koran woke in the sitting position he had been in all night, back against a tree where he had dozed off into his thoughts. The side of his neck ached from where it had been taught overnight as his head drooped to one side and as he stood, he winced, his hand coming to his neck. Rubbing it gingerly, he rolled his head from side to side and stifled a yawn, stretching his head and shoulders as he looked out across the expanse where the army were waking.

Realising he had been stupidly careless to simply doze off when his position with Herding was so unfavourable, his hand flew to his belt quickly...and he was relieved to find his dagger still there. He ran his fingers gently across the smooth, fine stone set as the pommel, his fingers still hypersensitive to the touch from the night's sleep, and smiled gently to himself. The weapon was probably the only thing Koran truly valued now - value was dangerous, he had found, tying people to possessions as worshippers to false idols: he had seen so many times both friend and foe falling needlessly as they sought to retain and defend their possessions. What thanks would a chair ever give you? Would you stake your life upon a stick of furniture? Weapons....they were different. And the dagger was special to Koran - in a place where he had little else, it was some security: in a swift, undercover fight, a dagger was so much more effective than a large blade.

With that dark thought in mind, he turned to look for Ehan...and found himself staring into a rather less favourable countenance. His face must have shown some disgust at the orc's appearance behind him, only a foot or so from him, but if the creature saw it, it made no comment except to sneer nastily - or maybe that was simple it's usual expression.

"Captain Herding wants t' see you. Now." The orc was not ceremonious and did not waste words before it turned away, but there was a certain smug satisfaction in it's voice that Koran did not like. He contented himself with glaring after it's retreating, leather-and-fur bound body, then cast another look across the bustling camp, orcs and easterlings scurrying around like bees over their hive.

"Time to bid the illustrious captain good morning..." he muttered dryly. Turning away, he started towards Herding's tent, running a hand through his dark, curly hair then across his stubbled chin. It wasn't like Herding would care - only one thing about Koran's appearance mattered currently: the dagger in his belt. If Herding was as alike to Ferach and Cortim as Koran suspected, he would stop at nothing. Steeling himself, he entered Herding's tent warily, his dark eyes flicking around to check for any hidden assassin before he settled on Herding.

Who was asleep.

Koran's lip curled upwards distastefully as he regarded the sleeping Southron captain for a few moments. From one hand, a bottle hung loosely. The very model of a fine Southron captain, Koran thought wryly. Hesitating, he coughed loudly and pointedly into the back of his hand, watching Herding. The sound had the desired effect: alert to any loud sharp noise even when sleeping, the older captain's eyes snapped open and he jerked upwards, the bottle slipping from his fingers and smashing on the floor. Herding jerked again at the loud noise and glared at the bottle's shattered remains, then turned to Koran. He alternated glaring at glass and Koran for a few seconds, then seemed to settle on the latter. Koran met his cold gaze with an equally icy one.

"Good morning, captain," Koran said in a falsely bright voice.

"Are you trying to kill me with shock?" came the snapped reply. No, that's your job, remember? Koran was tempted to reply. Instead he said nothing. Herding glared at him balefully, then rose, walking to the table at one side of the tent and tearing off a hunk of bread, taking a bite, apparently ignoring the young captain's prescence.

"You wished to see me, Captain," Koran prompted impassively, his voice neutral. Herding grunted taking another bite, swallowing, then finally turning around at his leisure and pointing an accusatory finger at Koran.

"Elves have been sighted not far from here, Cenbryt - heading for the forest, I should guess. You will intercept them."

"On my own, Captain?" Koran's voice was still utterly neutral, only a trace of humour entering it. Herding glared at him sharply but found nothing on the boy's face and grunted, unsatisfied, before pouring himself a glass of dark, thick liquid.

"Orcs. Take a few," he replied carelessly, not looking up at the captain.

'Take a few'? Koran was disgusted at the captain's carelessness, even more so as he knew the reason for it - once more, Herding wanted him to fail. He would place Koran deliberately in the way of danger, giving him too few warriors and only a few treacherous orcs, hoping to harm or even kill him, wishing to stand over his body and gloat...

"A few? How many elves are there?" Koran replied, his teeth almost gritted as he forced himself to remain neutral.

"One or two, I suspect."

You know exactly how many there are, don't you?! Koran resisted the temptation to voice his thoughts, grinding his teeth together and mentally placing the number of elves at five to ten from Herding's response. "And may I take some of my own men?"

"The southrons?" Herdin's piggy eyes flitted up to Koran, sending him a piteous look over the top of his wine glass. "Well, if you feel you need them," he replied patronisingly.

Koran sent him a barely veiled glare of disgust, then bowed stiffly and turned on his heel. As the flap of the tent fell behind him, he suddenly realised his fists had been clenched: so tightly, in fact, that his stubby nails had actually bitten into his palms, drawing a few thin lines of blood near the surface, a neat row of four curves on each palm. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Opening them abruptly, the Southron became a different man: business was everything. Striding towards the camp and through it, he snapped orders to his men and to a few of the orcs.

"Get yourself ready: I want forty to fifty orcs ready to come with me and take the elves. Catham, get fifteen of my Southrons and of the Falhik tribe together. Ehan, get my sword. We're going to see the elves..."

[Orofaniel]

Herding smirked. Hopefully he had managed to trick Koran in a way that he’d not be fully prepared for a battle that might come - sooner than the poor lad would ever had dreamed of. What a nice thought that was. Herding had indeed, refrained from telling the whole truth to Koran. He had beheld information that could be of great importance. Now he was in the lead, Herding thought. Hopefully, there would be a battle where elven blood was spilt, and of course not to mention some real Haradrim blood too. One couldn’t imagine how satisfied Herding was with himself by now. He couldn’t wait to see Koran coming back – defeated. Or even better: badly hurt. Death was no option yet. But a few dangers and injuries on the road was a tempting and most pleasant thought.

By now, the sun had reached it far skies, and it was about time Herding got up and dressed properly with armour and everything. He stumbled to his feet, as he had been sitting for quite some time studying his map until Koran had burst in. He found his weapons on the ground. What a chaos; bows and arrows among daggers and knives which should originally be placed in his belt. He fetched his sword, felt the blade towards his strong hands. What a powerful sword it was. He could see rotten brown blood in the curves of the decoration which was slightly disgusting. Herding liked it that way though.

Pulling his second pair of boots forwards he sat down again and lifted them up. They looked old and worn out, and indeed they were. He wouldn’t want to trade them though, because they were simply the best one could get. He had always appreciated such boots during battles. It had never failed him. Without thinking more about it, he pulled them on. Then he rushed out of his tent to see Orcs and Southrons already set to go. Surprisingly enough, Herding figured, Koran had managed to do something. Maybe he wasn’t that useless after all? Time would show, although Herding doubted that Koran was good for anything. Using him for his own intensions wasn’t such a bad idea though.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Herding asked Koran with great amusement even though he just had told himself that it looked like Koran had everything under control. He could tell that Koran was already stressed.

“Yes, sir. Orcs are here…some Haradrims,” he replied weakly looking at Herding. Herding could tell by the way that Koran looked at him that Koran indeed, disliked him. Maybe even as much as Herding disliked Koran. Wasn’t it ironic? “You did not tell me the whole truth, did you Captain?” Koran then said sternly. “Oh, clever boy”, Herding thought with a great smirk. Of course he hadn’t told him the whole truth. However he didn’t reply to this until Koran once again faced Herding with the very same question. “Liar? Is that what you claim me to be? A poor condemned liar ?!” Herding then said harshly. His face expression was very much changed from the earlier when he had a huge evil grin surrounding his face. Herding was good at these things; twisting things around, and Koran probably knew that too. Koran said naught, although his face expression change too all of sudden as he was surprised by Herding’s reaction. On the inside however, Herding laughed at the man standing in front of him.

“You are indeed more impudent and daring than I though you were,“ Herding than continued. It looked as if Koran was getting angry and very much annoyed as he knew that Herding was playing evilly with his mind. “We’ll continue this little chat later maybe,” Herding said, while the thought of an injured Koran appeared in his head. He grinned evilly. “Now, get that force ready or you will regret it,” Herding then said finally, beneath his clenched teeth. Indeed, he had been doing this so often that his jaw was feeling somewhat numb.

“I can’t wait,” Koran said, while spitting on the ground. Herding could hardly resist the laughter, evil as it was, to burst out. He felt satisfied as he’d won a great battle. Yet again he’d managed to play with the poor man’s mind, with great success as well, he concluded. He heard Koran raising his voice towards the amry; “Let’s move!”

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"Get yourself ready: I want forty to fifty orcs ready to come with me and take the elves. Catham, get fifteen of my Southrons and of the Falhik tribe together. Ehan, get my sword. We're going to see the elves..."

Ehan grinned at the words. We're going to see the elves. We're going to see the elves! Oh, he had waited so long to hear the words. Running from his seat the young man darted about to find his Captain's sword. Where is it? Where is it? Ehan could hear the other Southrons preparing. When he finally found Koran's blade, Ehan could not resist twirling it and stabbing it into thin air, as if he were fighting some invisible opponent. The way the young man moved and the look of glee upon his face caused others in camp to stare a him, but Ehan hardly noticed the strange glances.

When he had found Koran again, the older Southron seemed preoccupied in making sure the numbers he had ordered were present. Ehan waited patiently, his eyes darting to and fro as he waited for Koran's attention. When he finally recieved the desired attention Ehan gave Koran his sword, hilt first. Koran nodded his thanks and turned away, continuing his count of orcs and Southron men.

"If it is not too bold, Captain," Ehan started, eyeing the small group Koran had ordered to assemble. "I must say that I think we should have gotten more of our own kind to go with us. I do not trust the creatures."

Ehan's words were lost in the clatter of armor and the grunting of soldiers as Koran made an order and the group suddenly began to leave the camp.

[Kransha]

Ahead they trudged, relatively slow at best. Many were lagging behind, at the wispy tail of the unshapely column that dragged itself across gently sloping land. Some slumped, kneeling in the dirt to pant, as if the journey was some more strenuous activity. Yes, they had started only as the morning’s light pierced nightly clouds and the shroud of pale, dappled blackness that peered at all sleeping beings like glittering eyes through the twisted branches of tall trees, had not yet begun to recoil from the heavens, but they had slept deeply, or should have. Many yanked they’re wretched, deformed legs over easy terrain, possibly trying to falsify some acting injury so that they might be excused. Of course, their captain would rather slit their gasping, rasping throats than let them sit and plant their barbaric muzzles in the earth to intake puddles of water that had materialized there. That captain trudged, with a little more vigor than the rest, at the head and front of the mellifluous serpent which wormed its way towards the sight were its miniscule prey awaited it, unknowing and unready. How grand a day it might be, if the serpent struck with enthusiasm and power, but, alas, most of the serpent’s scales had withered wearily.

“They don’t want to go, ye know.” Urkrásh said, piping in quietly. He would’ve been reluctant, under most conditions, to say anything to his master without being spoken to first, but today, Thrákmazh the Mighty seemed subdued somewhat, his single eye darkened, vague and filled with swampy murk, as if it had been tainted by some rank substance overnight. His brow sagged, his arms, usually pulled up at his side as if ready to strike the next thing that cocked an impudent eyebrow at him, were hanging limp, weak and lacking resolution, swinging from side to irresolute side. One hand, though, bore a great, sharp object in it, his gilded scimitar, clutched diligently in the grip of gnarled, rooted digits. His lingering eye, slithering to and fro in its ragged socket, turned to peer at Urkrásh.

“Because they’re all fools,” he snapped darkly, tightening his grip around the surprisingly cold, smooth feel of his weapon’s, “herded beasts who don’t want anything. That’s why they don’t want to go.” Urkrásh, ever faithful, though oft encouraged not to be thus to such a vile and malicious orcish fiend (even considered so by those who followed him) nodded his head without the slightest thought or hesitation. “Yes, Thrákmazh.” He murmured; a glum, bare expression on his face. He continued nodding after the gesture was made, shaking his head rather dumbly up and down and trying to keep up with Thrákmazh, who was persistent in his quicker speed. The orc captain was scowling brutally, his mind continually running over his frustration at his own men’s apparent lack of purpose, as he’d orated in a fiery rant to Urkrásh less than a sunrise ago. Now, as usual, he was more than ready to make another example.

“But, they’re a-goin’ now and half of the rats’ll be dead under Elven blades before the night has come.” He bellowed, a noise which surprised Urkrásh so much that he skidded to a halt. Thrákmazh’s volume shot up, raising an unwholesome octave, and his dank tone resounded through the ranks so much that tremulous shudders could be heard as an aftershock. The other orcs rushed around the two as Thrákmazh halted, turning angrily on his hopeful lieutenant. “Ye know what they think? They think they’ll be doin’ all the fighting! Indeed, and they’re wrong. I swear I’ll gut ‘em where they stand if any run, those bloody cowards!” The words of the last statement were viciously roared into Urkrásh’s face, who staggered involuntarily, and another unanimous shudder overran the ranks of orcs.

“They want motivation, sir…” squeaked Urkrash daintily, “you can give them that.”

“Motivation, ye say?” Thrákmazh snapped, half incredulous, turning his shoulder to Urkrásh, “An orc doesn’t need motivation. An orc needs a sense of what he ought to do, for there is only one thing an orc ought to do, and once an orc grasps that he won’t need to question anything as long as he lives. Being a thrall of the Great Eye is a miserable thing, Urkrásh, but if you make somethin’ of it, see somethin’ in it, all will be clear. There’s only one thing you can do, and that’s serve with all the loyalty, with all the zeal, with all the strength in yer bones and the steel in yer sword. You’ll never be free of yer service, and there’s no consolation in anything else, so ye might as well show who you serve that you’re better at serving than everyone else, and ye can get all the pleasure out of it too.” Urkrásh, looking into the solitary, lonely eye of his master, saw an all-too familiar, faint glow of sickly yellow, yearning to be released from its cage under a wrinkly lid. “The master tells me to kill, I kill, and I’ve learned to like it. If those orcs knew what fun they’re was to be had…”

As his master’s voice withered, faded, and eventually died down into a raspy breathing, Urkrásh raised a finger of suggestion. “They’re scared, Thrákmazh, and tired.” Thrákmazh turned to him, glaring fierily at first, his gaze and face sharpened like the rusty dagger that hung in his armored belt, but suddenly settled, and he cackled with furious, bombastic madness in his voice. “TIRED?” he roared, questioning the sky, rather than his servant. “SCARED? And the Great Eye will give ‘em a break to rest they’re poor little feet?” Again, he looked down, his head swiveling to scan the mounds of orc-flesh moving as waves on the sea would around them. His eye narrowed, shriveling and shrinking into a single gem, twinkling evilly where it sat, and he began to walk forward, towards the front. “I’ll give ‘em a rest.”

Suddenly, he shot forward, plowing through the ranks, his blade up at his side and his clawed feet leaving deep imprints in the ground that looks as if they wished to simmer and suddenly burst into flame, to show the path he’d taken, In mere moments, he’d cleared most orcs, looking past them to the men who walked weakly in another clump not far off. He cackled again, slashing the air before him and turned towards his orcish brethren, his voice swelling to a magnificent roar which boomed like orcish thunder. “PICK UP THE PACE! ANY MAGGOT WHO CAN’T MATCH MY SPEED’LL BE A MEAL FOR MY SWORD!”

And they listened…amazingly well.

“We’ll have those elves begging for mercy, lads!” He cried, again his tone overwhelming the ranks, “We’ll have ‘em groveling on the ground, and those men will still be leagues behind.” For the first time, there was a very bleak murmur of reluctant approval. “The glory of this is going to us and us alone!” Again, another murmur came, and soon enough, more murmurs, many uncomfortable, most impartial, or so it seemed. Thrákmazh didn’t care, not in the slightest, for he was caught up in his purpose, the one he spoke of. He was going to taste elf blood this day, and his men would with him, else they’d be slain with the foul elves and laid in gore alongside them. He ran, and continued, not pacing himself, letting the rest lag behind, the sounds of their panting, sharp intakes of breath beating in his ears and shaping themselves into war drums, signaling his coming victory, a majestic and wonderful herald of blood to be spilt.

“They can’t…match your pace…sir.” muttered Urkrash in between his own pants, trying feebly to keep the speed himself, “…You know that…Not all of ‘em.” He looked back, his head bobbing as he ran, to the smaller group of men who’d assembled for the mission, who were now trailing far behind. They were looking to the orcs, dismissing their new speed as a burst of dark adrenaline, he supposed, but again, this was a fact that didn’t matter to Thrákmazh, who still ran…and ran…and then, very suddenly and unreadily, stopped.

Since the company of orcs was trying to ‘match’ Thrákmazh’s pace, they halted very abruptly when he did, many stumbling awkwardly, tripping over each other and sliding head first into the dirt. They pushed up again, taking the opportunity to collapse, muttering constantly. A new din of angry conversation filled the air, but Thrákmazh’s sword-hand flew up menacingly, and they all stopped. They watched, with a strange, animalistic anticipation on their face, as Thrákmazh’s hooked nose sniffed the air several times in slow, cautious succession. As a new, unsettling silence settled, Thrákmazh turned to the troops he commanded, his next tone as shrill and small as a whisper. “There’s something in the air.” He faintly said, more words which traveled as a rippling wave would across the bustling mass of now silent orcs, “…Smells like…elf-flesh…” he turned away from them all, “They’re close.”

Again, a fire seethed in his eye, and his rusty blade was up.

“C’MON YOU WORMS! MOVE!”

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The Sun brought no comfort to Ambarturion, for the dark thoughts of the night cast their shadow of concern about his heart still, and Caranbaith’s condition was no better. Coromswyth tried to comfort both master and student by pointing out that it was no worse – indeed, a remarkable think after the young Elf’s exertions of the day before. Megilaes was drawn and pale with concern and his eyes kept going back to his brother. Ambarturion had to snap at him several times to ensure that the watch was kept while he and Coromswyth readied themselves to leave. As on the day before, Caranbaith insisted that he was strong enough to walk, but Ambarturion would have none of it. “You said the same yesterday,” he barked, “and by noon you were unable to keep your feet. Today you shall be seek the help of your brother and the lady, for we must be over the River before the Sun is no more than a third of the way through her journey.” He hoped that none of them knew how difficult this would be. . .they were still too far from the safety of the far shore. For the first time he thought of turning South and returning to Lorien, but the knowledge that they were being hunted was too great. There were enemies approaching, and they would soon cross the River and seek to prevent their flight to the Green Wood. Should they try that route, they would find themselves encircled and in the open before nightfall. Their only hope was to make for the cover of Mirkwood with all the speed that they could.

“Come,” he said, helping Caranbaith to his feet. “We must hurry.” He looked at Coromswyth and felt the gentle pressure of her mind upon his own. He acknowledged his fears to her, but did not elaborate upon them – it was enough to know that they were in danger; she need not be burdened with the hopelessness of their situation.

They moved through the grass of the Vale as quickly as they could, with Ambarturion and Megilaes keeping to the front and scanning the horizon to the south-east. As they went they could both feel the presence of evil pressing in upon them from that direction, like the feel of a fire upon their foreheads when their eyes were closed. Ambarturion was tempted to seek shelter from the despair in his memories of Doriath. When his student had taken the watch last night he had sought that same refuge, walking through the protected realm that had lain within Melian’s Girdle, and hearing again the song of Luthien before her betrayal with Beren. Even as he walked in the light of the day once more, feeling the growing terror of the land all about them, his feet were once more drawn to follow the paths of his youth, and he could feel upon his cheek the light touch of leaves that never fell, and the scent of flowers now long vanished beneath the waves filled his nostrils.

It was Megilaes’s sudden cry that awoke him to the grey horrors of the present. His student had stopped dead in his tracks and was staring away to the south-east. Ambarturion followed his gaze and saw afar off, upon the very edge of the horizon, a black smudge upon the land. As he gazed at the stain, it resolved into the shapes of two or three score orcs and Men, racing across the Vale and directly toward them. How the servants of the Enemy had found them he did not know, but he did not have the time to ponder this. They had forded the River and were upon the western bank. Had Caranbaith been in good health, there might have remained yet the possibility of escape, for as tireless as orcs and evil Men might be, the Elves of Lorien were yet fleeter of foot. But Caranbaith was in no condition to run, and Megilaes would never leave his brother to the torments of the beasts that now approached. Nor would Ambarturion.

He turned to Coromswyth. “My lady,” he began. “My students and I will not flee before the enemy, but there is no need for you to die at their hands. It would be best if Lorien knew of this incursion. If you leave us immediately and run but a little west of south you may reach the Golden Wood ahead of the orcs. If we are lucky, they might even dispatch some of their number to pursue you, and we three might be enough to defeat those who remain, and you can escape your pursuers in Lorien.” He knew that his plan was almost entirely hopeless. But even more hopeless was the idea that Coromswyth would abandon her companions, particularly Caranbaith.

Marvellously, the lady smiled when she spoke. “No, Ambarturion,” she said. “I will not flee. There is little hope that I could escape the enemy, and that would only deprive you of another sword when they come upon you. Let us seek a defensible place to prepare for the attack.”

Ambarturion was surprised and greatly impressed by this response, but he was careful to control his reaction, saying only, “I see, my lady, that you come of warrior blood yourself. Come! If I remember these lands aright, there is a small hill not a mile from here. It is neither so high nor so well protected as the hill we held against the goblins of Moria, but it is steep and the land about it is clear. We can at least use the advantage of height to fell some of our attackers with our bows before they are upon us.” Coromswyth nodded, and Ambarturion called for his students to follow. They ran almost due north until the saw the hill before them. It was indeed not very high, but it rose steeply beneath their feet. While it presented no challenge to the Elves, the orcs would be hard pressed to scale its sides at full speed. When they reached the summit they turned about and looked out across the Vale of Anduin toward the black stain of their enemies. They were shocked by how much closer the orcs and evil Men had come in so short a time.

They readied their bows in silence, for there was nothing to say. All they could do was wait.