Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Primrose Bolger]

Broga was hunkered down by the fire. It had burnt down with only a few blue flames licking up now and then. It was the sizzling coals that had him fascinated. He poked at them with a charred stick, watching the small sparks carry up into the night air. ‘Brother!’ he shouted, sending another shower of glittery embers toward the overhanging branches of the trees about the camp. ‘Pretty fireflies! Ain’t they something?’ He stirred the fire again, smiling as Grimm approached.

‘Somethin’ alright,’ growled Grimm, snatching the stick from Broga’s hand. ‘You get any more of them sparks caught in the leaves and we’ll be burnt outta this nice little place we got goin’ here. Be lookin’ for another place to stash our goods. Hate to think what the Orcs’d think if they saw us hauling a coupla bags a coins around.’ He crouched down beside his frowning brother. ‘Might think we been dippin’ into what’s theirs, holdin’ back.’ Broga shook his head slowly. ‘Gotta nice little thing going here,’ Grimm went on, nudging his brother. ‘Let’s not mess it up.’

Crack! . . . snap! . . . twigs breaking . . . varied mutterings from large beings unseen as yet in the darkness . . .

Grimm stood up from the fire, muttering himself. ‘Looks like the neighbors have arrived,’ he whispered to Broga, giving him a hand up. ‘Wonder what they want?’ Broga whispered back. Grimm’s eyes were on the large rock across the little clearing. He could just see two lumbering figures moving into the moonlight.

-o-o-o-o-

The fire had been stirred up and chunks of wood added to it. The four Trolls sat on the large, flat topped rocks they’d rolled near the flames, talking about the talented nose of Arald and what had been sussed out through its olfactory prowess. ‘Elves, eh?’ reflected Grimm, taking a long look at the vaunted honker.

Dim shook his head enthusiastically. ‘So what do ya think, you two,’ he chortled. His meaty fist slapped against the flat of the other hand. ‘Bet you two would like to do a little Elf bashin.’ ‘Come on, now,’ he went on, winking at Broga. ‘You know we’d have fun!’

Broga was starting to nod his head as Dim spoke, a leering smile cracking the leathery planes of his face. Grimm, however, was less eager to latch onto the plan. He stood up, a gruesome frown crackling his brow.

‘Not to rain on your little plan and all. Elf-bashing’s something me ‘n’ my brother happen to excel at . . . BUT.’ The others looked up at him, muttering already at what was coming next. ‘I’m gonna bet,’ he went on, ‘that the chief knows about these Elves and such. He’s got spies out – you seen that maggoty looking creature comes round ever so often. Fen, somethin’ or other.’

‘Yeah . . . and so?’ one of the others asked.

‘And so . . . like I told my brother a little earlier,’ Grimm said, planting his thick hands on his hips. ‘We gotta good thing goin’ here with the Orcs. What say we tell ‘em what your nose tells you? Tell ‘em we want to be in on it if they’re plannin’ something.’ He looked round the lumpish group. ‘Come on now,’ he said starting off toward the Orc camp. ‘Who’s with me?’

A short time later, the four Trolls stomped into the Orc camp demanding to see the chief. ‘Tell him there’s Elves about . . . and nothin’ good’ll come of it if they ain’t seen to!’

In the face of overwhelming trollishness, the scrawny Orc guard fled to deliver the message.

[Nuranar]

Esgallhugwen's post

As the group seperated into three the two Elves and Fen rode abreast, but as they drew further from the others Tarondo took the lead whilst Silrûth took the rear, keeping a lookout for trouble. The day passed soon enough and they made camp for the night, Fen had persuaded them to stay away from Whittleworth at dark, and the Elves were wise enough not to attempt the risk.

In the morning light they packed, eating a cold breakfast while on horseback. By well after noon they had reached their destination.

The stench was overwhelming for one not accustomed to such things, both Tarondo and Silrûth having seen much carnage in war had a better hold of their stomachs then Fen. The black carrion birds were swooping and pecking with ravenous speed, the ground seemed to move with a glistening black current of ebony feathers where the hapless bodies lay.

The two Elves collected themselves and began searching the area while Fen stayed behind watching the horses. Tarondo searched the ground, careful of his step.

Silrûth caught eye of the collapsed house and quickly paced the premises, her keen eyes catching every detail. "Look at how this whole corner is destroyed." she called to Tarondo, "It seems as if it was smashed at one blow. And over here," she turned and pointed next to her making sure not to step on the wood fall.

"There are two men under there. Two men, crushed to death. The house itself has been ransacked but very little taken, from what I can tell. I cannot find any money, although there is a hidden nook in the floor that is empty."

She looked at her companion who seemed to be transfixed in thought, with a gently nudge she eyed him knowingly asking "Have you found anything?"

He shook his head and frowned.

These bodies cannot be left to be shredded by the birds she thought sadly, Tarondo seemed to be thinking the same thing for Fen was soon fetched and was set to work digging graves for the deceased. The Elves pitched in, Silrûth striking the earth with the pick while Tarondo dug away steadily at the loosened soil.

The gruesome work was done with the sun still above the eastern hills. Tarondo set off around the perimeter of the farmyard, where the ground was softer and vegetation grew. Silrûth stayed awhile mouthing a silent Elvish prayer over the fresh graves.

Fen had wandered off back towards the horses.

The golden haired Elf drew near to her companion, he was kneeling down and glaring curiously at some wilted vegetation. It was impacted into the dirt with frayed edges clinging to the sides of the oversized print.

With a displeased sound she knelt down beside him inspecting the track, it looked far too familiar for her liking. She stood looking in the direction of the giant gait, North East, "towards the marshes", Tarondo nodded a sneer on his lips.

She could have sworn there was the faint reek of Troll in the air, she scrunched her nose up in disgust, and began to follow the tracks. After a few moments, Tarondo took her kindly by the arm, "we have no time to linger, the sun is setting soon and we must be back on our way to the others"

Silrûth nodded solemnly. "Yes we must tell the others what we have found"

They were once again among the decimated ruins of Whittleworth, they walked to their horses noticing the absence of Fen. "Seems Master Sheperdspurse has left us", Tarondo's horse snorted in distaste, Falma nodded her head in agreement.

Turning the direction they had come with the sun fading, the horses started at a trot.

"To Weathertop it is then" Silrûth looked over at her partner, "to Weathertop it is" Tarondo replied.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain,Veryadan scanned the place full of bodies of the shepherd and dog ,the bodies seemed to be torn apart by some force which Aidwain thought could only exist in a troll,in the war Aidwain had seen his elven brothers being ripped apart by the same breed within seconds as they tried to kill them .

While Aidwain thought of the war , ‘Interesting, though,’ remarked Veryadan as he held two gnawed pieces of the shepherd’s long thighbone up for inspection to Aidwain who was crouched down near him. ‘I can think of no animal large enough in these parts to have snapped the bone in two like this. Something with tremendous strength did this gruesome work.’

‘It couldn’t be . . .,’ he began. ‘Aidwain, have you ever been around the Troll lairs in the Angle? Seen the bones of big animals they’ve killed, broken neatly in two, the marrow sucked from them?’ He shook his head. ‘But there are no Trolls here, as I recall.’

‘There are those footprints I first found,’ Aidwain offered.

‘Too big even for a giant of a man,’ Veryadan agreed. He shook his head again. ‘Even if it were Trolls, I’ve never met one bright enough to plan and pull off raids as these seem to be doing.’

"The footprints I discovered seemed of orcs to me",replied Aidwain.
"Yes,Indeed ,but What I really would like to know is how big a group we’re dealing with,’ said Veryadan, as they reached the campsite. ‘Did your Elven eyes pick up any hint of this? The prints were too overrun by those of the scavengers for me to make any sense of them.’

The day was growing toward evening. The two companions walked back toward their meager camp. Osric had gone off on his own; they were curious as to what he had found.

"Well I think there must have been trolls as well as orcs in this place,the orc's number I cannot tell but I seem to find that their are four set of prints of trolls.
.I thought your skills as a ranger would be handy in here,but for now we can only say that the orcs and trolls were here and they killed the shepherd and took all his sheep .Let us return to camp for the day wanes and we better not roam alone in this place . Come let us find Osric for I fear for his safety .",replied Aidwain and then leaving the place of murder they returned to camp .....

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

. . . moving toward Weathertop from the marshes; making camp the evening before meeting the other groups atop the hill . . .

Veryadan had taken the last watch for the night. No signs of activity save the occasional passing of some small animal in the darkness were noted by him and he was glad of it. There were only three in this little company, and though they were all skilled warriors, still two blades and a bow would not stand against the numbers of foul creatures they had surmised had recently been in the area.

His companions and he had talked long into the night about what they had found that day and what it might mean. They were concerned about the thought of Orcs and Trolls having banded together to maraud the northwestern reaches of the kingdom. Left unchecked they had fears of the Orcs becoming bandit-lords - laying claim to ‘territory’ and placing sections of the King’s free subjects under their domination and tyranny. It would be a long and tiresome war with many losses if the Orcs were not stopped now while their numbers were small, their organization less developed.

As soon as first light broke to the east, Veryadan stirred the few embers of their little fire and called to his companions who were already stirring from their blankets. Once Aidwain was up, he filled their small pot with water from a nearby creek and set it to boil for tea. ‘We should set out toward Weathertop as soon as we’ve broken our fast,’ the Elf said, kneeling down to roll his blankets and tie them. Veryadan nodded, fetching his pack and handing round a few handfuls of sweet oats for the horses who were trying to make do with the sparse, coarse clumps of grass that grew in this area.

Meal done, fire out, coals scattered, the three took to their mounts and headed south a short ways, then turned east. They were in no hurry; their meeting with the other two groups would not be until tomorrow. It was early evening still when they reached the southern foot of Weathertop at the point nearest the Great East Road. Veryadan looked up toward the plateau. ‘Well, there’s a small track I can see winding it’s way up,’ he said pointing toward a broken line zig-zagging up the hill. Looks like we’ll have to lead the horses up.’

He was just about to dismount when Aidwain spoke up. ‘Amon Sûl, you know, is what we Elves named your Weathertop.’ He laughed as he spoke. ‘And a fitting name it is. Hill of the Wind! Let’s save being blown about for tomorrow. It shouldn’t take that long to climb up.’ The Elf pointed to an area across the road – a small clearing with some trees to shelter under.

Veryadan laughed also, seeing the wisdom of the Elf’s choice of camp. ‘Now all we need is something tasty and hot for dinner! I, for one, am tired of dried meats and fruits. It’s still light out, anyone have an idea?’

[Kransha]

When there was nothing to kill, maim, devour, annihilate, or ‘play with,’ life got very boring for orcs. Bâzzog was pacing, in the center of his camp, probably thinking, though it was hard to tell when one looked at him. He would crouch down; squatting, every now and then, and survey the land to some extent, but all exercises were designed merely to occupy him. Nearby, Búbkûr sat, letting sparkling golden coins, which he had clutched in his hand, drip through his fingers and watching the sunny waterfall fall onto an ever-growing pile arranged in the dirt. Gráthgrob was also squatting, and sketching an illegible series of drawing in the moister dirt with his sharpest claw, that tipped his stubbly forefinger. Kransha, as mute as ever, stood in the distance, looking over the camp in silence, while other orcs busied themselves with counting their respective shares from the spoils of the Whittleworth Farm raid. At last, the steady tedium was disrupted by distant sounds of horse hooves, and the approach of the hunched over, wretched shadow called Fen Sheperdspurse. At his arrival, Búbkûr leapt to his feet, but Bâzzog was unfazed, and only nodded to acknowledge the man’s arrival.

“Bâzzog.” He said quickly, “I bring word of the interlopers.”

“Not ill news, again, is it.” Búbkûr growled, his grimy teeth poking out of his continuously blood-stained mouth. He growled, a deep, throaty noise that swelled and gasped in his throat, and Fen flinched visibly, but did not waver otherwise, and managed to continue, despite the residue of Búbkûr’s unsatisfied sounds. “No, not ill at all.” He said; grinning like a devil, all wrapped up in his villainous cloak, “I know of where they will meet, on the morrow. Upon the hill of Weathertop they will be meeting;” he pointed a slightly quivering finger, bony and gnarled like detestable tree branch, in the direction of the ruined watch-tower of Amon Sûl, “a more than perfect opportunity for you to ‘make their acquaintance,’ yes?” He chuckled under his breath, thinking that the orcs might join in with raucous guffaws, but they did not.

“Roight.” muttered Bâzzog, scratching himself. Fen looked repulsed, but Bâzzog and his cohorts ignored the disgusted look. “Whadda we do, then?” interjected Búbkûr loudly, his boor voice filling the area and shattering the illusion of silence. Bâzzog looked back at him, his beady eyes narrowed in a dank scowl, and he responded in a terse fashion, as was customary for terse orcs. “Kill ‘em.” He said, “Simple enough.” The other orcs did not entirely comprehend, especially the duller lieutenant. “Just…kill ‘em?” Búbkûr looked confused, his thick, jutting brow wiggling in bewilderment, “Just like that?” Bâzzog looked sourly at him, and responded, “Of course ‘just like that.’ Whaddja think we were gonna do.”

Gráthgrob’s voice was heard next, meek at first, but then strangely confident as its volume rose. “Well,” he said, “…we don’t ‘ave ta kill ‘em.” Bâzzog and Búbkûr glowered back at him, both confused and slightly insulted by this questioning of Bâzzog’s authoritative power to have the last word. “What’s ‘at supposed ta mean?” shot back the chief orc angrily, rising swiftly to his feet, his shadow falling over the smaller figure of Gráthgrob, who immediately cowered, but spread his arms and attempted to calm Bâzzog. The chief was half-enraged, but knew Gráthgrob to be a decent, respectable, and intelligent uruk, and moved back, allowing the sniveling orc to waddle forward and make his scheme known. “Maybe,” he began quietly, constantly looking to his captain for approval, “…We just kill some…I mean, there ain’t many of ‘em, right? So, we ambush ‘em at Weathertop, but not all of us; just a few o’ us. That way, we can still ‘ave our fun with ‘em, eh? Let the trolls have their gold. I say, we can take whatever the tarks and the Elfies got.” At this, he spat condemningly, upon the name of the Elves, and was joined by Búbkûr, who did the same.

Bâzzog, though, was busy nodding in agreement, and was joined shortly after by the other orc grunts crowded around, some of whom whispered and murmured to themselves or others. Without a single exchanged word between the whole band, the decision was made. They began to gather closer, and huddle, and speak more loudly, as Bâzzog and Bubkur considered quietly, and Kransha stood mutely by. Búbkûr broke the reign of hushed voices, by speaking with his usual oafish tone. “Wha’ about him?” he said, jerking a clawed thumb at the figure of Fen Sheperdspurse. Fen jumped, slightly ecstatic at the thought of gaining more riches for himself, and could not stop himself from blurting out, “Yes. What of my share?”

Bâzzog smiled evilly. “Ye want yer share, do ye?” He shot a glance at the thin, quiet orc lieutenant nearby. “Kransha?”

Suddenly, the narrow, emaciated arm of the silent orc shot forward at lightning speed, and the orc’s icy fingers, closing like a mighty vice, wrapped around Fen’s scrawny neck and hoisted him speedily off his feet. Confused and horrified, Fen squirmed about as a caught fish might out of water, but to no avail. Kransha’s hold on his needed throat constricted and tightened, though the uruk himself bore a completely unemotional expression on his face, one of utter, incomprehensible bemusement. Behind the hovering man and orc, other orcs, licking their lips ferociously, wormed forward, forming a voracious semicircle just behind Fen. Bâzzog took a step forward, grinning maliciously. Fen had outlived his usefulness – though not entirely. Quietly, he spoke. “We orcs don’t really like sharin’.” He said, sardonic and cold, “But, I think we can manage it, just this once.” He looked past the dangling Bree man, to the orcs under his command, whose eyes were glowing horrifically, and whose mouths were hanging open. “Boys:” he cried, “‘e’s all yours – and don’t ferget ta share.”

The orc threw Fen backward…and he never hit the ground. As he fell, the orcs swarmed over him, growling and roaring.

Giggling sadistically to himself, Bâzzog turned around and, in one sweeping motion, pulled his weapon from its place in his belt, hanging in neglect at his side. He drew it forth, and held it up. “C’mon, you maggots!” he cried, hearing his lieutenants and the other orcs (those who were not currently “busy”) begin to sidle around him, “We’re goin’ ta Weathertop!” The orcs slowly drew all their weapons, many laughing and hooting in mad anticipation. Soon, a mild uproar had sprung up. Bâzzog laughed deeply, and Bubkur joined like a good thrall, laughing stupidly, but also considering the benefits, and the fun to be had, from Grathgrob’s ingenious plan. The uruk troops began to ready themselves, gathering what they required for the hunt ahead, but their murderous jollity was interrupted by a breathless goblin messenger, who dashed into the area, panting furiously, and addressed Bâzzog as soon as he was near him.

“Cap’n.” said the messenger, in between sharp breaths, “The trolls are here. They say Elves are about, and they wanna speak with you.”

“Sha!” cursed Bâzzog, a sentiment seconded by many other orcs in far more obscene ways, “That means they’ll want a piece of the action, they will.” He paused, looking to Gráthgrob, Kransha, and Búbkûr. They did not reply to his gaze, looking, instead, to him for leadership, and a decision, despite the fact that most other uruks in the camp were too wrapped up in the business of preparation to notice what was occurring. Finally, Bâzzog begrudgingly shrugged. Best that we let ‘em tag along” he said, half in defeat, and then considered what might come of such an action. “…They ain’t bad in a fight, fer sure.” Búbkûr nodded heartily.

And so the matter was settled. The trolls, still thinking that they were the ones that had alerted the orcs to the Elves’ presence, and a band of selected orcs under Bâzzog, as well as his chief lieutenants, set off for the hill called Amon Sûl, to wreak havoc on their foes.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain and Veryadan reached their small camp and instantly fell asleep with Veryadan on guard,in the morning they set out for Amun Sul where they were going to meet the rest for the company.They rode at a an easy place stopping for a meal in the afternoon,but it was still early evening when they reached the southern foot of Weathertop at the point nearest the Great East Road. Veryadan looked up toward the plateau. ‘Well, there’s a small track I can see winding it’s way up,’ he said pointing toward a broken line zig-zagging up the hill. Looks like we’ll have to lead the horses up.’

It nearly took an hour or so to set a camp under a bunch of trees .For their night meal they decided to hunt some rabbits instead of having their fruits and dried meats. Aidwain liked the idea for he had not used his bow since they set out from Bree.He crept along the zig-zag path until he came to an opening in the trees ,here he hoped to find some coneys for them ,he slowly crouched and moved in the trees,and waited ,after about twenty minutes he heard a noise in the bushes ,looking in the direction he saw a small rabbit searching for food,slowly he took out a arrow and fitted it to his bow and drawing it he killed the rabbit in a instant.

Pleased with himself Aidwain returned to camp ,but as he moved out of the trees he heard a distinct noise ,not of his own feet but of someone else who as if was running,the elf hastily returned to camp and told this to Veryadan who looked at him gravely and suggested that they set two for watch tonight......

[Envinyatar]

SAVE for any posts needed prior to the battle . . .

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Meneltarmacil's post

"Well, I think this is the spot," Menecar said, coming to where the merchants had been killed.

"Appears that there's not much left." Thoronmir observed. "Whoever killed them has pretty much disposed of the bodies."

"Over here!" Luinen said, pointing at the ground. Several tracks were leading off in the direction of Weathertop.

"Looks like several orcs were here not too long ago," Thoronmir said. "I'd say these tracks are only a few days old at most."

"There are some much larger tracks leading out of this ditch," Menecar added.

"Trolls." Thoronmir looked worried. "They're about the same age as the others. We'd better see if there are any more."

They searched through the area and found many more tracks leading in the same direction.

"Thoronmir, what is it?" asked Luinen. "What's wrong?"

"Shepherdspurse," he answered. "If he got any word out, the time of these tracks would be consistent with the time it would take for them to respond to an andvance notice from him. Meaning our friends are probably going to be in serious trouble..." He looked over toward the line of hills on the horizon, where Weathertop was faintly visible.

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

Nothing had come of the noises the Elf had heard. Though, perhaps it was because they had kept the fire burning and took the watch two together while one caught what sleep he could. The sharp light of early morning brought out the tired angles of their faces after the short seeming night. And no strong mugs of tea could drive away the weariness they felt. There was a certain menace in the air they felt, the Elf especially, making their rationed sleep fitful with vague dreams.

Weathertop loomed up across the roadway. The rising sun caught the top rim of it and spread down the eastern side. ‘A favorable sign, don’t you think,’ commented Veryadan, pointing out the light as it rolled down the hill. Aidwain gave the promontory a critical look. ‘Once we’re up there,’ Veryadan continued, nodding toward the plateau, ‘we can take a look-see about. See if we can spot anything that might have made those noises you heard last night.’ He began securing his bedroll and pack to his horse as did the other two of his companions. They rode to the foot of the hill. Then, dismounting, led their horses, single file, along the narrow, rough track they’d spied angling up the southern face of Weathertop.

Save for the skittering of a few ground squirrels making their rounds among the fallen stones of the tower that had once graced the plateau, the hill top was quiet and empty, save for the constant breezes that blew against them. The three companions stood at the remaining center of the old tower and turned slowly round, surveying the countryside. Nothing amiss registered.

‘Might as well make ourselves comfortable,’ Veryadan spoke, breaking the quiet. ‘We were the closest to the meeting place. It will be a little while before the others arrive.’

They took off their belongings from the horses and tethered their mounts a little ways off, near a rocky outcropping that afforded them some relief from the constant wind. Veryadan made himself comfortable on a low, crumbly wall top that had once been part of the tower. He leaned his back against the sun-warmed stones. Osric had found his own place to sit, some distance away and had taken his blade out, wanting to check for any nicks. Aidwain, too seated himself, on one of the rocks. His bow lay near. And he too was inspecting the sharpness of his arrow heads.

A while passed in these make-do occupations as they waited for the others to arrive. The horses began to whinny a little and stamp their hooves on the rock in a restless manner.

‘I’ll see to that,’ Veryadan said, uncurling himself from his comfortable seat. ‘They didn’t get their oats this morning. Perhaps this is a gentle reminder.’

‘Or maybe one of the other groups has drawn near and they are eager to greet the other horses,’ offered Aidwain looking up from his task.

Veryadan made his way to the horses, calling out to them in a soothing voice . . .

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Psst!’ Broga crooked a thick finger at his brother, motioning for him to come nearer. ‘I hear ‘em movin’ about up there.’ The two brothers, with their basalt colored, scaly skin blend in quite well with the rocky face of the hill on the north side. Helpful too was the fact that a small ledge jutted out for a short way along the hill side, blocking the view of anyone looking down from the top.

‘Quiet!’ hissed Grimm. ‘One of them sharp-eared Elves is up there. This is supposed to be a surprise.’ Broga placed his finger over his pursed lips and nodded his head.

The chief had gone over his plan a number of times with those Orcs and Trolls who were to make the first wave of attack. Grimm and his brother would climb up to the northwest end while four Orcs would make their way to the opposite end. The Trolls would arrive first and take care of the horses, distracting the Men and Elf, while the four Orcs would sweep in and surprise them from behind. The other two Trolls and several more Orc groups would add reinforcement as the other groups of men and Elves arrived.

Grimm motioned for his brother to start on up. ‘You sure there’s just the three of them up there?’ Broga asked one last time. ‘Yes, you lackwit! We scouted the area below last night, remember. It was just them three across the road as we could find.’ Broga’s brow furrowed. ‘And they was eatin’ them rabbits, wasn’t they?’ Grim sighed quietly and nodded his head yes. ‘You just take care of their horses, run ‘em off, have a little fun with ‘em. Just watch out for that Elf and his bow.’ It was Broga’s turn now to nod his head. He rubbed his right shoulder with his hand, remembering a particularly painful encounter with a number of Elves and their sharp, hurtful arrows.

Broga peeked over the top of the hill seeking to find where the horses had been put. He and Grimm inched a little westward then heaved themselves up over the rim of the plateau, just a little way from their objective. Broga grinned as the horses reared up and pawed the air wildly, neighing their disgust and fear at the approach of the Trolls. To Grimm’s great delight, a Ranger had stopped dead in his tracks as the two heaved themselves to their feet and lumbered with club and hammer toward the three wild-eyed horses.

‘Trolls!’ they heard the man shout, noting his two companions scrambling to their feet.

‘Get them oatburners, brother!’ Grimm told his brother, pointing his thumb toward the horses. He thumped his great hammer into the hard-hided palm of his hand. ‘I’m gonna have me some fun with one of them Duneydain boys!’

Osric and Aidwain were rushing to the aid of Veryadan, sword and bow at the ready. Grimm swatted an arrow away from the Elf’s bow and laughed loudly as he advance on the trio, hammer flailing.

From behind the three companions came the harsh sound of Orcish battle cries. The four Orcs had crested the hill and were rushing to battle.

[Alaksoron]

Osric sat against a portion of wall that afforded some makeshft shelter from the wind. He was checking his swordblade. It was a fine Elven make, beautiful yet deadly. His mind drifted to Pelennor Fields, where Alaksoron had lay dying, a Haradrim arrow in his chest. Despite all his skill with medicine, Osric had been unable to help his captain that had quickly become his friend. It had been a triply barbed arrow, jagged and strong enough to break bones. The kind that never came back out.

Alaksoron had been the captain of his Rohirrim regiment. Alaksoron had been a great Elf-friend, and as a result received an Elven sword as a gift for an act of valor. As Alaksoron had lain gasping, Osric crouching helpless beside him, the battle raging around them, he had pressed his fine sword into Osric's hand. He had said nothing, but that had been enough. As Alaksoron breathed his last, Osric Falkur had returned to the battle with renewed vigor, an Elven blade in his hand.

He sat apart from the others, and his thoughts passed to the events of the previous day. He was aware subconsciously of Veryadan getting up to check on the horses. He himself had found nothing yesterday, which irritated him, but the other two had said trolls. Trolls were one of the few things that Osric was afraid of. A troll could easily rip the sturdiest man to shreds. He had seen that, at Pelennor Fields. Idly he wondered why the creatures which possessed obvious advantages in size, which possessed such savage strength, also had the dullest minds.

And it was the word which Osric feared most which jolted him from his thoughts. "Trolls!" Veryadan yelled.

He was up and running before he had time to think, lucky that his sword had already been in his hand. Aidwain was running too, bow in hand, and outpacing him with his long legs. Osric froze when he saw the Trolls, sudden fear gripping him. He heard a savage whoop from behind him, and turned to see four orcs advancing. Here was an enemy he was not so reluctant to encounter.

There was a knife in Osric's free hand quicker than a man could blink, and it was back out of his hand just as quickly. Blood blossomed in an Orc's throat as Osric's knife struck home. He brandished his sword, hoping that Aidwain could keep the trolls off of Veryadan with his arrows. On came the Orcs.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain sat against a wall of the great tower of Amun Sul,which was now in ruins,he took out some of his arrows and sharpened them with the sharpening stone which Osric had bought,he had sense of foreboding that some one was watching them,he jad not forgot the noises he had heard last night.

In the meanwhile Veryadan had gone to feed the horses ,who were whinning,and suddenely out of nowhere he heard Veryadan shout " Trolls !! " ,without thinking Aidwain immdieately rushed to his feet and fixing an arrow to his bow he shot at one of the trolls,but he swatted the arrow away from the Elf’s bow and laughed loudly as he advance on the trio, hammer flailing.

Out of his eyes corner he could see that four orcs had come from the other side and Osric was fighting with them with his sword and knife,but Aidwain was shooting arrow after arrow at the troll ,but it seemed that they had no effect on the creature,but the trolls were now fighting with Veryadan who already was injured but taking out his sword defended himself,Aidwain could not think of anything to do but fire more arrows on the trolls .......

[Primrose Bolger]

The foul Elf’s arrows were irritating Broga no end. Several of them had nicked the horses he was after and sent them rearing and slashing at him as they’d been driven to the edge of the hill. He’d managed to swing his club at one of the beasts, knocking the horse across his broad chest. Breath knocked from him, the horse struggled with his footing. His back hooves scrabbled against the loose rock at the edge of the hill but could find no purchase. With a scream, the horse pitched over the lip of the plateau. The two others, seeing the Troll was distracted, whinnied loudly and tore off around him on each side.

Grimm, in the meantime had landed a few blows near the Ranger, but the man was fast on his feet. And that sword of his – Grimm had forgotten how hard those blades could bite. Already he’d several slices on his legs and forearms that were dripping with blood. And the Elven archer’s arrows, bit into the tender folds between the scales on his hide, like a swarm of irritating gnats. ‘Brother,’ he yelled. ‘Give us a hand!’

Broga left off his attempts at wrangling and lumbered over to Grimm’s side. He could see that one of the Orcs had already been done in by the other man with the sword. Two of the three Orcs were pressing in on the man, harrying him with their own jagged blades. The third Orc had zig-zagged around and was angling toward the Ranger.

The two Trolls began moving toward the Elf swinging at him with club and hammer . . .

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan could see he’d gotten a number of good blows in at the Troll. The creature was bleeding both from the cuts from his blade and from the places where the arrows had imbedded. Only one of the Troll’s hammer blows had come near him. It had glanced off his left arm as he’d jumped away from it, leaving the arm numb from the elbow down, but still intact – no bones broken.

He saw the horses running wildly away from the second Troll and heard the loud sickening thuds and the scream as one of them plunged over the side. The Trolls had joined forces, then, their new objective seeming to be Aidwain. Veryadan turned, intending to stand together with his companion. Running quickly round the horse marauding Troll, he aimed a blow at the back of the creature’s knee. As the Troll raised his arm to deliver a blow with his club, Veryadan brought the point of his blade up, intending to bury it in the vulnerable area between the scales that protected the creature’s armpit. He dodged in quickly toward the Troll, the tip of his blade pushing in against the tough hide.

The searing pain came as a surprise. Veryadan’s breath came in gasps as he sought to master it. The lone Orc had circled round him, and arcing his jagged blade in a two handed grip cut the Ranger deeply on his flank. Aidwain had by this time brought down the Orc with a deeply driven arrow. Veryadan’s sword slipped from his grasp as he clutched his bleeding side. He staggered back from the Troll whose leering face now looked down on him with a sort of feral glee. The foul creature swept his club round about, catching Veryadan hard on his upper arm. The force of the brutal blow threw the Ranger a short ways away, his body landing in a crumpled, bloodied heap on the rock strewn ground.

[Alaksoron]

Peripherally Osric was aware of Veryadan crumpling from a blow by that massive troll warclub. He knew he would have to take some real action now. Even with an excellent Elven bow, Aidwain could never handle a pair of trolls alone. Falkur wanted badly to help the others, but the Orcs he was facing were no clumsy fighters. Even he, with his unrivaled sword skill, was having a hard time of it.

One of the cursed jagged blades had already bitten into his left knuckle, and his coat was splattered with blood, almost none of it his. He scored a blow on one of the Uruks across the shoulder, and the wicked orc-sword dropped from his hand. He turned to face the other, which was attempting to circle around behind him. He lunged forward and slashed with all his strength.

Falkur's slender blade landed across the neck where the armor was weak, cutting deep. With a bloody gurgle, the ugly creature fell. Osric felt a sharp pain in his calf, and turned to see the other Orc, already wounded, slashing with a kopis. He feinted a slash at the Orc's shoulder, and he fell for it. A quick thrust at the stomach, the blade driven clean through, and it was all over.

Osric turned and limped toward Aidwain, realizing his sword would do him no more good against the trolls than it had Veryadan. He pulled his own bow from his shoulders and fitted an arrow to the string.

[Nuranar]

After the discovery of both Orc and Troll tracks, they had covered the miles back to Weathertop as swiftly as they could. As they neared the rendezvous, the cries and bellowing from the hilltop only confirmed Luinien’s fears. “Follow me. Quickly!” Scarcely slowing her speed, she guided her mount up a narrow track on the steep eastern side of the hill.

When the track degenerated into a scramble over rocks, Luinien turned aside and slid down. Not staying to tether her horse, she snatched her bow and clambered nimbly to the top. Menecar and Thoronmir were right on her heels, swords drawn.

Even as she crested the hill’s edge Osric slew the Orcs he was fighting. Without seeing her, he turned and ran to Aidwain’s aid. The Elf stood alone, facing two Trolls. Luinien ran forward to a slight elevation and stopped, fitting an arrow to her bow. As the two Rangers stormed past her with fierce battle-cries, she released. With a roar, one of the huge creatures dropped its club and grasped its arm. As she drew another arrow Luinien saw Menecar dash in to the attack, while Osric and Thoronmir converged on the other...

[Saurreg]

Loudewater was still badly shaken by his “ordeal” at what was Whittleworth Farm as well as what he thought had come to pass at the part of the Great East Road where a huge beech had fallen. Chancing upon two places that have seen gruesome death on the same day was proving to be too traumatizing for the farmer. His shaking hands were clutching the leather reins of the mule so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his face was paler than usual. Large black mosquitoes that had followed Killer as they passed the marshes where the tree fell buzzed around them still, but Loudewater was impervious to them all. Too shocked to think coherently, he was in a semi-dazed state of numbness.

It was only when killer halted abruptly in his steps and nearly threw the in-alert farmer onto the road before him, did Loudewater break out from his daze and capture what was before him. Killer was reluctant to proceed further and the wide-eyed animal was thrashing this way and that in great argitating, snorting loudly and whinning in alarm and tension.

“Woooh! Wooh boy!” Commanded loudewater in what was the deepest and most reassuring voice he could master. But the frightened animal refused to budge and continued to shake its head in furious agitation.

Finally Loudewater brought the nervous beast into control by bibery with an apple he had taken along. He surveyed his surroundings to get his bearings right and it was only then did he realize that to his left, rising above the emerald green grass covered hill was the old fortress that people called “Weathertop”

The derelict ruin had been abandoned long before Bree was settled but that have not stopped tales of haunting spirits or some other demonic entities from adding to its already sinister reputation. The latest offering from gossipers and yarn-weavers was that Weathertop was now the bastion where brigands and other undesirable riffrafts resided.

Weathertop was supposed to be abandoned, but Loudewater could hear the clanging of metals and hideous cries from throats that do not sound human. Fear rose again from the dark recesses of the farmer’s being and engulfed him, but this time the Imp of Perversion that had visited him the night at the Prancing Pony’s returned with a new side-kick ; the Fairy of Unreasonable Curiosity. The combined influence of the said two overwhelmed the fear in Loudewater and the farmer felt an irresistible urge to see for himself what was happening up there in the ruins.

He looked around and judging what was the least steep of the hill slope, he nudged Killer onto it. But panic gripped the beast again and it refused to budge any further even when Loudewater continued to press at its girth with his boots. Frustrated, the farmer got off clumsily and tied the reins to the branch of a fallen log and made his way up by foot, head giddy with excitement and heart pounding nervously.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain had released about a dozen arrows on the troll to no immediate effect ,but he could see that the arrows were infuriating the troll,at the same time Veryadan had cut him from several sides ,Osric was battling the four orcs alone .

But now he could see that one of the orcs had steadily made his way behind Veryadan,even before Aidwain could draw his bow to kill the creature it had slashed at Veryadan's arm,but the next instant it fell from Aidwain's arrow,but now one of the trolls gave a huge blow to Veryadan with his club who flew backwards uncounsicious.

The two trolls leaving their attempts to kill the ranger turned on Aidwain ,rushing towards him with Hammer and club,he released another arrow to the trolls neck but to no effect ,Aidwain thougth this was the last sight he would see the two trolls rushing towards him,but suddenly out of nowhere a whistling arrow hit the troll and the club fell from his hand , Aidwain sprang backwards dodging the falling hammer of the other troll and now he could see that at last his companions had come Lunien standing on the hill's edge was shooting arrow after arrow at the trolls and Thoromir and Menecar were rushing towards them with swords drawn ,in the meanwhile Osric too had come to his aid.

Without waiting another second he drew his arrow and aimed at one of the trolls eye,the arrow flew and hit it's mark,the troll howled in pain ,seeing that the troll's were injured he rushed to see whether Veryadan was alive ......

[Kransha]

“They’re all dead!” cried Búbkûr, “all of ‘em.”

His eyesight was not particularly good, but the blackened hue and shadowy, bulky appearance of the orcs on Weathertop was easily distinguishable, in contrast to the Elves, men, and monstrous trolls. Squinting and blinking, Búbkûr peered up at the ruins that marked the summit of the earthen lump of rock as it jutted from the plains below. He could see that the initial force of six uruks had been easily slain, though they had done some damage. Búbkûr, as usual, was suffering from a belligerent mood, and wished to be involved, personally in the battle. He was hungry for blood, an unsavory lust that came upon him often, and was practically salivating at the possibility of staining his jagged hook hand with Elvish blood. In Gundabad, it had become increasingly harder to find such an admirable living quarry as Elves, since those seldom ventured deep into the Misty Mountains. Of late, Búbkûr had only had access to wretched Bree men like the fool Fen Sheperdspurse, and roaming hobbits far from their accustomed element. Eager, with a thin line of saliva seeping from his crooked lips, Búbkûr glanced at his commander, who stood nearby, gazing at the battle.

“Doesn’t matter.” Said Bâzzog astutely, “We’ll send more.” He said this with a great deal of nonchalance, which was not particularly common for him. It surprised Búbkûr, and Gráthgrob as well, who sat not far off, contemplating battle stratagems with the assistance of a knobby stick and a patch of grassless dirt, that Bâzzog, the ruthless chieftain of uruks, had not already sent in his whole, massive force to overwhelm the few meager remnants of resistance against him. Instead, he was being incredibly coy and reserved with his tactics. But, he was not utterly altered. Slightly irate because of this conservatism, Búbkûr ventured a frustrated query to his commander. “How many this time?” he said, “The whole bunch?”

“Eight.” Bâzzog replied, turning on his heel, “Eight more.” He indicated a number of orcs, who leapt up merrily, with sadistic grins slapped onto their grotesque faces. Bâzzog then gestured to Búbkûr and Kransha, who had been carefully examining the hill above and scoping out the situation warily. “Búbkûr,” the uruk chief said then, pointing a thick stump of a finger and the tapered claw at its end toward Amon Sûl, “you lead this group. Kransha,” he shot a dank look at his gangly lieutenant, who turned dutifully to face him and nodded before he had even been issued a command, though Bâzzog proclaimed the order anyway. “Go with ‘em,” he growled, and then paused, smiling like a hungry wolf; “…Make sure you leave some for me, yes?”

Kransha nodded again, more promptly than before, and slid a red-tipped bolt nimbly from the quiver dangling at his side. He pushed it against the hard wood of his bow and nocked the arrow, holding it up as if he were about to fire. But, instead of taking careful aim and loosing the shaft, he broke into a dead sprint towards Weathertop. Búbkûr, after a grimacing glare from Bâzzog that incited him, rushed after Kransha, lumbering slowly in comparison to the swiftness and speed of the other orc. Behind him, the other six orcs, an assortment of large brutes, surly and muscular in appearance, began to run, until the group had arrived at the bottom of Weathertop’s slope.

It did not take long for the orcs to scale the hill and engage their foes in battle

[Saurreg]

The short climb up the hill was proving to be more exerting than Loudewater had initially anticipated. The hill was steeper than it looked and the wet grass and moss caused the clumsy farmer to trip. Cursing and panting, the farmer slowly labored his way onwards where the furious din of fighting got louder with every heavily planted step. Loudewater was about to give up and head back down when he reached a high elevation and saw what was transpiring on the opposite side of the hill between the woods and the hill clearing.

It was a skirmish among armed combatants, but not just a struggle of ferocious men. Loudewater saw the huge colossal trolls first, each as black as soot and clad in skins of dead animals. One of the monstrosities was bellowing in anger and pain, and cupping his left eye with an immense paw while thrashing his scaly arms wildly about, not caring what he smashed. The other was lumbering in a feral gait towards his target – a small lithe figure whilst brandishing an impossibly huge cruel club.

There were other combatants about also, some man-sized and many others a little more squat. Regardless of stature, all were busy crashing into one another and striking out to kill. Some of the stocky ones seemed to have detected Loudewater’s presence by smell from the way they abruptly stopped and looked his way.

The sight of two of the two huge fell creatures gave rose to primal fear that grasped farmer’s heart and crushed it. The din of battle and furry of motion was all too much to bear. Loudewater lost all sense of control and did what every self-respecting Loudewater men since eons have done when confronted by their worst fears.

He screamed.

It wasn’t a curt manly scream of frustration or agony, but rather an impossibly high-pitched scream that would make a world-class falsetto blush had it not being ear-piercingly shrill and deafening.

The emotional response took the breath right out of loudewater and he had to stoop to catch it. The sudden stop in noise caught his attention and he looked forward only to see that every combatant had stopped fighting and were staring at him dumb folded. Loudewater could have sworn that some of the stocky ones were rolling about on the ground, cupping their ears and withering in silent agony.

Realizing the peril he was in, the farmer did what he could only do in such circumstances.

He screamed again.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“SSSHHHHH!” Arrald hissed at Dim through clenched teeth. “We’re supposed to be sneaking up on them Elvses,” he said grimly. “Like that leader orcky told us, wait till the pointy-ears are too busy to notice, and then…” he smacked his club into his open palm and chuckled evilly.

Dim’s eyes lit with an unhealthy glow and his head ducked up and down. In a strangled whisper he said what he had been saying all the way up the Hill, “Oh, my brother, this is going to be such fun. I can’t wait to have at that She-Elf!” Dim had a particular tooth for Elves, particularly of the female variety. He swore that they tasted sweeter.

The two brothers moved with uncommon stealth; but still, had it not been for the battle, which was now raging at a fever pitch, their approach would have been noticed, for they could not help but kick stones and crack twigs as they went. That, and their bestial breathing and unwholesome sniggering, meant they were less than ghostly. Still, whether by stealth or by good luck they were almost upon the She-Elf before she noticed them. She was loosing arrow after arrow upon Broga and Grimm, and while Arrald quite enjoyed the sight of their misery, he knew that there wouldn’t be any booty if these interlopers were allowed to get the better of the trolls. The orcs were milling about now, doing about as much good as orcs ever did – as usual, it was going to be up to the trolls to turn the tide.

Arrald raised his club above his head, preparing to bash the she-Elf, but by some sound or feeling she sensed his presence and whirled about. Her eyes went wide with shock and horror, but still she was quick to bring her bow to bear. Dim lunged at her with his claws forcing her to dance away, losing her aim. Arrald roared with triumph as he brought his club down upon her, hard.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater was spent after screaming his lungs off for the second time and the appearance of two more bellowing and thrashing trolls did not help at all. The farmer's knees went soft and he fell onto the ground like an unstrung marionette.

"This isn't happening! This isn't happening!" Muttered the shut-eyed farmer to himself as he crawled aimlessly (and rather comically) on all fours in a small concentric circle where he fell.

I'm not here! I'm not here at all! This is all just my imagination. When I open my eyes I'll be at home sitting on my overstuffed couch infront of the fireplace. Nothing but me, couch and fire. Maybe Helga...

Helga nagging...

Oh my God! Oh my God! This isn't happening! This isn't happening!

A high-pitched dying shriek jolted Loudewater out of his stunned confusion and back into a grim reality. The battle raged on like an undeniable flood and the harsh sounds of death and suffering seemed to get louder with the tick of each second.

Andas Loudewater dropped onto his elbows, buried his face in the ground and covered his head with his hands and cried,

"God... PLEASE! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!"

He was totally oblivious to the fact that an orc that had seen him earlier was now scampering towards him in great speed, marking him out as an easy prey amidst the lot of skilled elven and human fighters...

[Alaksoron]

Osric loosed arrow after arrow at the trolls, but all it seemed to do was agitate them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Luinien springing up the hill with her bow and taking aim at one of the trolls. Thoronmir and Menecar came roaring up behind her, swords in hand. Silently, Osric gave thanks to heaven for their timely appearance.

With surprise, and no small amount of satisfaction, he noticed that Luinien seemed to have wounded one of the hideous creatures. It was howling and clutching it's face across the left eye. Smiling, he slung his bow over his shoulder and drew his sword. He'd had little confidence in his sword when it had been just he and Aidwain, but he was inspired by the valor of Menecar and Thoronmir. His bow didn't seem to be doing much good, anyway. Perhaps three blades could give a troll pause.

He rushed one of the trolls alongside Thoronmir, though a bit slower for he was still limping. He hacked at the trolls thigh, and froze when he heard a shrill, inhuman scream from behind him. His head swiveled in the direction it seemed to be coming from, at first thinking perhaps Luinien had been wounded......

Osric's eyes went wide when he saw a squat man crouching on the edge of Weathertop, panting heavily. Osric was still more amazed when the man raised his head and screamed again. But there was no time to think. The trolls dismissed the pathetic figure and continued their attack. A large Orc charged the small man.

The orc fell as one of Osric's knives struck home in the center of his back. Falkur had honed the knives to a razor edge, and they penetrated leather armor like butter.

[Nuranar]

As Luinien evaded the second Troll’s vicious claws, she flung aside her bow, useless in close quarters. Even as her hand opened the first one brought down his club with a deafening roar. Her sudden movement had thrown off its timing, so instead of crushing her head, the blow grazed her shoulder and flung her to the ground. She cried out as her arm collapsed under her.

Quickly her other hand found the hilt of her dirk. As the Troll advanced, raising its club once more, she half rose and lunged across the ground. Diving between its tree-like legs, she stabbed viciously through the scales to the tendon above its heel.

Wrenching the blade free, Luinien staggered to her feet as the second Troll turned towards its howling companion. Trembling, she stood waiting for their attack to renew, left arm hanging numb. She was hemmed in against the hill’s edge, a slender dirk blade her only protection.

Suddenly a harsh clamor arose to her right. Her skin crawled as saw a squad of Orcs charging over the slope; focused on the main body of the battle, none glanced her way. Luinien made no move until the last crested the hill. Then all at once she dropped the dirk and drew her knife.

The Orc gave one bubbling shriek as the knife struck his throat, then fell headlong. Swiftly Luinien wrenched the sword from its grasp.

The first Troll was charging her, the second limping and bellowing behind. A hard light burned in her eyes as she faced them. With a fierce cry she flourished the black Orc-blade and advanced to meet them.

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir and the others had ridden as fast as they could to Weathertop, but they were already too late. Veryadan was seriously wounded, and two trolls and several orcs were converging on Aidwain and Osric. Thoronmir slew several orcs with his sword, giving Osric some relief.

"Thank heaven you showed up. We were almost dead!" Osric shouted.

"We figured you could use some help," Thoronmir said.

"AAIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!"

Thoronmir and Osric turned. A man was standing at the edge of the battle, completely unprotected.

"Hang on!" the ranger shouted. "I'm coming!" Thoronmir charged up toward the man and the orcs that were coming for him as Osric hit one of them with a throwing knife. Thoronmir tackled one from behind and sliced a second orc's head off with his sword. He got up and addressed the newcomer.

"Go back! Now! I'll cover you!" He blocked another orc's attack with his long knife and beat it off with his sword. "Get out of there!"

The orc continued to battle, and Thoronmir knew this was no ordinary orc soldier. He was very sturdily built and his hand had been chopped off and replaced with a hook. The orc swung at Thoronmir with his hook. Thoronmir barely managed to dodge as the orc's hook tore off part of his cloak. The ranger raised his sword and dealt the orc another blow.

[Alaksoron]

Osric heard Luinien yelp and turned his head just in time to see eight Orcs crest the hill and charge into the fray. Luinien, her left arm hanging limp, slashed the last Orc's throat with her knife and wrenched the nasty orc-sword from his grip as he fell. Brandishing the heavy, curved blade she turned to face two trolls.

Falkur charged the oncoming Orcs, sword in his right hand and a knife in his left. With a wild battle yell he collided with the first Orc in line, slamming his shoulder hard into the creature's midriff and simultaneously driving his knife into it's stomach. Osric flung the creature from him, abandoning his knife. The massive Orc toppled and died.

Falkur slashed with his sword as soon as he had room to swing. He buried the blade deep in an Orc's head right across the temples, and drove his left elbow straight into the face of another. It didn't seem to faze him much. He brought his knee up and slammed it into the Orc's stomach, also to no avail. Abruptly there was another knife in Osric's hand. He drove it hard into the creature's throat. It gasped and brought up blood, then finally was dead.

Whirling, he realized there were no more orcs to fight. The rest had charged the small man at the corner, and were now being engaged by Thoronmir. Osric rushed, or as much as he could rush limping, to Luinien's aid. She was having trouble wielding that clumsy orc-sword, and with one arm useless, she was easy prey for a pair of trolls.

Lunging, Osric hacked at a massive, soot-black arm with his sword and opened up a shallow gash, but no more.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain had bent down to see whether Veryadan was alive,and to his relief he had found his heart beating when he placed his hand on his chest,but Veryadan was seriously injured his left side was bleeding and he was uncounsicious.But before he could even get up there was a fresh set of orcs attacking them ,he also saw that another two trolls had appeared and were engaging Lunien .

Aidwain straightened but then he suddenly relaised he had only one arrow left,without thinking he took out the sword which he had bought from the armourer in Bree and rushed to the aid of Lunien .She had already killed an orc and was brandishing an orc sword but Aidwain knew that at best she could only parry some of the troll blows.

But suddenly out of nowhere he heard a scream ,he looked in the direction and he saw that it was one of the Bree men he had seen in the Inn and the man screamed again ,but suddenly realising his errand he rushed towards Lunien ,she already was injured one arm useless,he quickly scaled the cliff and saw Lunien advacing upon the trolls,Aidwain quickly cirlcled and came from behind one of the trolls he raised his sword and with all his strength he drew it deep in the knee of one of trolls .But the only effect it had was that the troll now advanced upon Aidwain ,the troll swung his huge warclub and Aidwain sprung back just in time ,now Aidwain dived and again slashed his sword at the same bleeding knee ,but this time he felt a sudden pain in his left ankle ,he realised that the trolls club had struck,Aidwain could at best now stand up with his broken limb,but the troll too could only limp but this time Aidwain felt sure that his end was near when ....

[Nuranar]

When fighting trolls, speed and agility is key. Useless though her arm was, Luinien had lost none of her balance or nimbleness. She lead the trolls on a lumbering dance, dodging around and between and occasionally crashing them into each other. Without the advantage of surprise, the trolls could not hope to catch her.

Quickness be as it might, it still takes time to wear down brute strength. Luinien's own strength was draining. The viciously serrated orc sword had scored jaggedly through troll scales numerous times, inflicting jagged wounds her dirk could not have equaled. But the blade was unwieldly and unbalanced, and Luinien knew she was only playing for time.

Suddenly Osric was at her side, hacking at one of the trolls. Beyond him Aidwain appeared and drew off the other. Luinien fell back for a moment, gasping; then as Osric's troll lunged at him she sidestepped and slashed at the massive leg. The sword ripped a ragged, shallow cut, but as the troll's blow went wide Osric's blade slipped inside and gashed its belly. With a roar the creature stumbled back, kept staggering away. It had had enough.

In the respite Luinien scanned the hilltop. On the far side Thoronmir was dueling fiercely with a hook-handed Orc; near him Menecar was keeping off two more. There was a cowering pile of clothes huddled off to one side, surrounded by bodies of Orcs. Veryadan was lying motionless near a heap of rubble.

Even as she looked she sprinted back to where she had dropped her dirk. Abandoning the vile orc sword, useful though it had been, she grabbed her accustomed weapon. "Hurry! We need to help Aidwain!" she cried to Osric, who was still menacing off the retreating troll.

The other Elf was on his feet - barely. His troll was slow and bleeding, but even as she ran to his assistance its heavy club began to descend.

Out of nowhere a golden-feathered arrow pierced the creature's forearm. For a second it stared stupidly. Then dropping the club, it took off after its companion, bellowing in pain and surprise.

Silrûth appeared over the crest of the hill, Tarondo right behind her. As she sent more arrows after the retreating pair, he dashed to the aid of the Rangers, who were decidedly getting the worst of it against the Orcs.

[Kransha]

The attack began well, despite the number of uruks that was brought down at first. Búbkûr and Kransha, with eight orcs immediately behind, swarmed as locusts onto the field and clashed noisily against their enemies. The eight orcs practically fell onto the hill, and spread out, as the troll reinforcements arrived and engaged the enemy as well.

It was a man who slew the first orc. He was blond, perhaps of Rohirrim descent, or one directly, though orcs did not care for genealogical quibbling. The man was armed with a dizzying array of ranged knives, sharp as the teeth of dragons, which he had at the ready. His soaring blades closed the meager distance between the man and his targets easily, piercing the back of an orc who had thrashed and bashed his way to the front of the squad, aiming his burly self towards a small, miserable form, curled up in a pathetic position at the edge of the hill. Writhing and grabbing at his inaccessible back just before he went pallid and stiffened, the orc, still in mid-motion, was thrown forward by the impact and rolled to a limp and lifeless halt on the ground. No sooner had he fallen when a second hulking orc leapt over the crumpled body and galloped, whooping and hollering darkly, towards a supple she-elf who had just severed combat with one of the trolls. The orc, fancying himself a master strategist, dodged and weaved about as he drew nearer, ready to pounce on his lithe prey, but the female spun with great, but expected, Elven agility, and drove the tip of her sleek knife through the orcs throat, killing it instantly. The wave’s second casualty fell, twitching fitfully, to the earth, and the fair Elven maid easily extracted the orc’s crude weapon from its chilling grasp.

The third orc to fall, along with the fourth, was taken by a dark-haired man, certainly a tark by orc standards. The man tore forward as the line of orcs, now consisting of only six beings, closed around him and his righteous brethren. He jumped and fell upon an orc, tackling the beast. The orc rolled and twisted away from the man and clambered frantically forward while the man, instead of finishing him off, turned to a second orc and, with a fervent blow, severed his bobbing head from his lanky shoulders. The orc’s headless body fell onto its knees, dropping the spiked club clasped in its useless fingers, and slumped, while the head rolled idly behind. The orc who’d been tackled, weakened but not slain, made his way towards the fair-haired Rohirrim. But, before he reached his quarry, the Rohirrim ran straight into him. There was a brief tussle, and the orc fell beneath the Rohirrim’s blade. The man then hurried doggedly onward, and, in a matter of moments, took out the two remaining uruk grunts. As he completed this grim task, the Rohirrim turned and swiveled swiftly on his feet, flying back at a great speed towards the trolls, who were now besieged.

Only Búbkûr and Kransha remained now. Both soon busied themselves. The Rangers and Elves became immediately preoccupied by the trolls, though some were still beleaguered by the duo of uruks. Búbkûr, searching, anticipating a kill and lusting for blood, at last found suitable prey in the form of the skilled tark. His brazen hook-hand flailing madly above, he plowed into single combat with the man. Grinning like a fiendish madman, Búbkûr swung his blade, and the cleaving falchion in his left hand, at the man, but managed only to rend the fellow’s clothes. Angry and inwardly steaming, the orc forced the man backward, towards the hill crest, berating him with further attacks, but the man soon got a swift strike in, in between the massive arcs made by Búbkûr’s fearsome arsenal of weaponry. The blow penetrated Búbkûr’s defenses, the tip of a broad blade slicing at his arm and cutting a thin gash, which oozed coal-black blood that began to well up, streaming down the length of Búbkûr’s left arm. Growling and gnashing his teeth, eyes ablaze with murderous fire, Búbkûr surged forward again, and began to stab with his hook hand, raking at the man. At last, he made contact, his hook looping over his enemy’s shoulder and, as he pulled back his muscled arm, impaling it. The hook pierced through the back of the Ranger’s shoulder, and the man cried out, and Búbkûr was instantly filled with the pompous belief that he had already won, but his fantasy was cruelly disrupted when, instead of melting into a quivering mass of fear-stricken man flesh, the Ranger whipped his own blade around, lopping a chunk from Búbkûr’s leg. With a dejected groan, Búbkûr pulled his hook hand from its place and began to stagger backward, fending the man off feebly as he fled.

As all this was occurring, Kransha, one eye carefully closed to further hone his aim, was searching the flattened roof of Amon Sûl for a target. An arrow was nocked to his bow, and vibrating minutely, as if it to was anticipating an impending kill. Kransha, though, held out little hope. He was not a creature who wasted perfectly good killing utensils, and did not plan on firing unless he knew he could hit a target. So, he waited, pacing along the edge of the hill, uninvolved in the struggle directly. He blinked, scanning the area, and raised his bow several times to fire, but lowered it again each time after he lost site of each target. In the muddled fray, he was able to get a good look at each combatant, and took a mental note of all faces, appearances, and the average battle prowess of most, until he had a rough idea, bottled up in his head, of the capabilities of his enemies. Once he resumed searching for a target, he finally discovered one who was not moving to speedily to be locked onto. It was a man with an unsteady, weaker build, and looked more like a farmer or a vendor than a warrior. He seemed to have no idea what he was doing, making him the ideal target. Licking his pursed lips, the orcs raised his bow and gently tugged the bowstring backwards, until it was pulled taught, and…

A cry rent the air, destroying Kransha’s concentration. “Retreat! Retreat!” It cried. It was Búbkûr.

Scowling, Kransha lowered his bow again, having lost his target again, and sprinted swiftly after Búbkûr, who was already retreating down the side of the hill.

[Saurreg]

There was the furious sound of pounding feet and it got closer to Loudewater with every passing moment. The farmer was suddenly acutely aware of it despite having his face on the ground and both hands covering his head. He was also intuitively aware of whom or rather what those footsteps belonged to. It was the insight that only those who are about to die possessed. And death was coming to claim Loudewater with every step, closer and closer.

Loudewater drew his limbs closed and braced himself for the inevitable, his body shaking like a leaf. His end was near and there was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing left to do but resign himself to fate.

The seconds ticked and the suspense become increasingly unbearable. Loudewater felt like screaming out again in anger and frustration all at once. But fear kept him in his cowering position.

"Hang on! I'm coming!"

The voice was loud and clear and it rose beyond the din of battle and reached the farmer's ears. It was the voice of a man, measured and strong. A man without fear.

The rhythmic pounding footsteps of doom came to an abrupt halt and there was the sound of feet scuffling about on moist grass followed by a whish the sounded like a bladed weapon swinging through the air.

Loudewater took his dirt-caked face off the ground and mustered enough courage to look up. Standing before him was a very tall man with an ichor dripping sword in his hands. He turned and regarded Loudewater with authoritive grey eyes that displayed both compassion and strength. Loudewater's mouth dropped open in surprise when he recognized the face.

It was one of the strangers from the Prancying Pony. The one he thought he had seen somewhere before when he was a child playing near the woods.

The man spoke again calmly but with great urgency,

Go back! Now! I'll cover you!"

But before he could finish, another being stepped into Loudewater's line of sight and started attacking the ranger. The newcomer was not a man...

"Get out of here!" Cried the ranger as he parried the powerful blows coming at him.

Loudewater nodded sheepishly and tried to get onto his wobbly feet. But the grisly sight of a severed orc's head on the ground not far from where the farmer was sent him tumbling back onto the ground again in horror.

[Alaksoron]

For a few dazed moments Osric stood perspiring heavily, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Blood was dripping from his left hand and flowing quite freely from his calf. The battle replayed in his mind, and Osric realized it hadn't been as long as it seemed. In the heat of the battle he had no time to think about pain, but now he felt as if he had run a marathon.

Wistfully Osric looked down at his fine coat, splattered in orcblood and grime. Wiping his swordblade with a handkerchief he produced from his back pocket, he bent over to retrieve his knives. Thrusting his sword back into it's scabbard, he began to wipe them too. Looking over at Tarondo, who was now bending over Veryadan, he asked "Is he alive?" Osric braced himself for the answer.

Osric let out a sigh of relief as Tarondo nodded the affirmative. "But" Osric winced as Tarondo continued "He is severely injured." A pause, and Tarondo raised his voice so all could hear. "He needs medicine. Is there any here skilled in the use of herbs?"

Osric was quick to offer his own limited skills. Retrieving his knives, he headed down the hill and into the woods to search for the right herbs. And since with orcs about none of them wandered alone, Aidwain accompanied him.

Falkur gathered the plants needed fairly quickly, taking care not to over-encumber himself with more than was neccesary. As he and Aidwain were nearly back to the base of the hill, Osric knelt beside a small shrub with red-tipped leaves. He slipped a pair of leather gloves over his hands before plucking some and stuffing them in a pouch.

Osric proferred the pouch to Aidwain "Rub these on your arrow-tips. They are extremely poisonous. Poison arrows are always a great asset to have." Aidwain took the pouch - reluctantly it seemed - and they began the ascent back to the summit of Weathertop.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain was nearly finished by the troll when a whistling arrow well aimed at his arm stopped him ,Aidwain had felt sure that this would be his last battle when the troll had charged at him with his warclub ,but then Silruth and Tarondo their last companions had arrived ,Silruth had shot at the arm of the troll and saved him ,seeing that they were outnumbered the trolls and orcs had fled from the field.

Aidwain was totally exhausted ,all is arrows were gone and he had for the first time fought in close combat with a troll,his ankle was broken and he could barely stand ,Veryadan was uncounsicious and was bleeding ,Osric had several slashes ,Lunien's left arm was bruised ,Thoromir and Menecar were bleeding only Silruth and Tarondo were unhurt.

"Thank you for saving my life ",Aidwain spoke to Silruth as she came towards him,"Ah not at all you will have to repay my favour sooner than you think,come show me where you are hurt . ".Silruth tied a cloth to his broken leg .After the battle Aidwain collected his arrows scattered on the battlefield ,he only found ten of them .

Aidwain and Osric then went in search of some herbs for Veryadan who was seriously injured there Osric proferred the pouch ,full of red herbs to Aidwain, "Rub these on your arrow-tips. They are extremely poisonous. Poison arrows are always a great asset to have." Aidwain took the pouch reluctantly it as he never had used poison arrows before and they began the ascent back to the summit of Weathertop.....

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Retreat! Retreat!’ Grimm heard Búbkûr’s cry from atop the hill. ‘Smart ‘un, that,’ he snorted at his brother. Broga was leaning on Grimm’s arm with his right hand as they picked their way down the rocky track on the northern side of Weathertop. His left eye had stopped bleeding. Grimm had yanked the arrow from it. No use being careful he’d said, the eye’s gone. Despite the pain, Broga was already thinking how much more gruesome, that is Troll-handsome, he was going to be now. Should they ever manage to find any females of their own persuasion, he was sure now to be on par with his brother.

As if reading his thoughts, Grimm pinched the half-blind Troll hard on the arm. ‘Pay attention with what sight you got, brother. Fall off the hill now and you’ll not live to go dancing in the Shaws again.’

‘Underestimated the little worms, we did,’ Grimm went on, helping Broga across a particularly slippery, pebbly place. ‘That Orc chief has a lot of little grunts under him,’ returned Broga. ‘Why didn’t he just send all of us in to crush them? That’s what I want to know.’

The two Trolls picked up there speed once down on level ground, heading toward where the Orc encampment lay. ‘Don’t know why he didn’t,’ puffed Grimm as they thumped along. ‘But I know what I’d do now.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Broga, slowing the pace. The jarring of their quick steps was beginning to make his eye throb all the more.

‘We got to cut them off from getting back to the man town. Too easy for them to get plenty of angry farmers and the like to come after us. We got easy pickin’ around here. We don’t want ‘em knowing who’s doing it.’ Grimm scratched his chest as he thought this out. Nodding vigorously as his thoughts took shape. ‘So what should we do, you ask,’ he went on in a satisfied way. Broga looked at him with his one good eye and opened his mouth to remind his brother that, no, he hadn’t actually asked. Grimm, however, ignored his brother’s protests and went on. ‘You know,’ he said, giving a ghastly grin. ‘We got cousins back east. In the Shaws. Let’s see if old Chiefy’ll want to herd them that way. We can torture ‘em as we go. N’ stomp ‘em good once we had our fun.’

A wicked light shone in Broga’s lone eye. ‘I want to stick one of them Elf’s arrows in his own eye,’ he rasped out. ‘See how he likes it. Nasty Elf!’

‘Well, then, let’s go tell His Orc-high'n'mightyness what we’re thinking. We’ll need to get back soon and cut them off from heading back to the town. Part of us can do that, the rest can force ‘em to the Shaws.’

[Alaksoron]

Osric worked quickly administering medicinal herbs to Veryadan, but he couldn't do much. He managed to seal up the wounds and relieve the pain some, but he was no magic healer. Veryadan would heal, but it would take time.

"That's all I can do for him." Osric said. He brought a waterskin to Veryadan's lips. "You need rest." Turning to Luinien, he said "Let's have a look at that arm. You too, Aidwain. Bring me your ankle."

Again Osric could do little more than bandage and relieve pain, but the Elves were grateful. Producing another pouch from behind his belt that was full of the same red leaves he had given Aidwain, he proferred it to Silruth. "These are very poisonous. You may wish to rub them on your arrow tips."

It seemed to Osric that Silruth also was reluctant to take the poison leaves. It was understandable that Elves, or anyone for that matter, would not want to use poisoned arrows. They were a nasty weapon. But under these circumstances, facing trolls and who-knows-how-many-orcs with most members of their party injured in some way, it might be their only chance. A terrible thought, that.

[Esgallhugwen]

As they neared Weathertop a harsh din was raised of screams, clashing metal and the sound of ominous thudding that could only mean one thing.

"Trolls" Silrûth uttered harshley under her breath, she drove her horse hard over the hill, bow aimed and ready for whatever scene there was to behold. Her closest target was a Troll, his large scaly form looming over Aidwain.

With bowstring taught she let the arrow fly, a glimmering golden streak drove into the flesh of the Troll's arm and he went lumbering off in pain and confusion. A hail of arrows was sent after them, as fast as her skill could allow.

~*~*~*~*~*

She sat beside Aidwain on the hill, having grudgingly taken the poison leaves, she disliked using such devices to gain an upper hand in battle, but Trolls she despised even more. The leaves had a light fragrance when she rubbed them on her golden arrows, being careful not to get the toxic substance on her hands, she crushed them between a rock and the sharp metal edges.

Silrûth's face was a stern display of compassion, concentration and rage and for all her beauty and frail seeming features she was certainly more than able to seriously opppose her enemies. She placed her arrows carefully back into her quiver.

"And what are we to do now, now that we know what was behind these attacks as some of us may have feared. Many of us are wounded, shall we return back to Bree? Gather supplies, then begin the journey to Gondor where we report to King Elessar, or do we wait and find out more about these assailents?" Her tone was gentle, but her eyes may have betrayed her had they not been downcast tending to Aidwain's injured ankle.

She was sorely angry at what the Trolls and orcs had done to her companions, especially Aidwain who she knew the best.

[rutslegolas]

As Aidwain and Osric returned ,Aidwain went an sat beside Silruth while Osric went to look after Veryadan ,Silruth and Aidwain both took the poisoned leaves though reluctantly and rubbed them on each of their arrows .

"And what are we to do now, now that we know what was behind these attacks as some of us may have feared. Many of us are wounded, shall we return back to Bree? Gather supplies, then begin the journey to Gondor where we report to King Elessar, or do we wait and find out more about these assailents?" ,Silruth asked .

"I know not whether we proceed to Gondor or Bree ,that matter rests in Tarondo's hand ,but if I were asked I would say we go back to Rivendell ,it is the shortest route from Amun Sul. ",replied " Ah now it feels much better ,Thank You ",he said patting his broken ankle.

"By the way what were you doing fighting those trolls in single combat ,and where did you get that sword ?",Silruth asked with mild astonishment.
"Ah this I bought this from a armourer at Bree,it proved handy did'nt it ?,besides Lunien could not have taken two trolls at the same time ."

In the meanwhile Tarondo and Lunien came towards them .....

[Saurreg]

Loudewater got up slowly eyeing the grotesque orc's had that laid a few feet from him, it yellow glassy eyes staring defiantly at him. A shudder went down the farmer's spine. That could have easily been his fate.

Loudewater approached the ranger who had saved his life warily. The huge man's shoulders were rising up and down with each ragged breath after his hard fought fight with the last great orc. Another younger looking man stood not far from the first and from the looks of it, he too had been fighting hard. Loudewater stepped closer gingerly before stopping two arm's length away from his saviour.

"Erm... " he began hesitantly , "You, you saved my life back there mister. I guess that puts me in your debt. Sir."

Not sure what to do next, the farmer introduced himself,

"I am Andas, Andas Loudewater. Very pleased to meet your acquaintance sir."

From the edge of his eyes, Loudewater could see two figures coming into view. They were the fair folks he had seen back at the tavern - the shorter female and the very tall male.

Loudewater wondered what their intentions were...

[Nuranar]

Tarondo looked bleakly around the hilltop in the weak light of a clouded afternoon. Orc bodies were scattered all about. Only their slight movements distinguished his companions from the slain, as they sat grim and silent. This place is far too exposed, he thought. He had been talking to the groups, about their prior investigations as well as about the battle. Apparently there had been one attack, then another in support of the first. We need to move off. He felt a sudden chill. It is far cooler up here than at the Whittleworth Farm - he shoved the ghastly memory away with an effort.

His eyes searched, found his sister, leaning against a stone, weary eyes gazing into the distance. Her bow was cradled in her good arm, while her left hung in a sling. "Luinien," he said, joining her. "Did you see someplace to camp out there, close by?" He pointed out to the east.

She thought a moment, eyes narrowed as she called up the memories. "Yes, I noticed a nest of boulders just beyond the foot of the hill. It is isolated and hard to approach without being seen."

Tarondo nodded approvingly. "That is good. Come on," he called, louder. "Time to leave before we are attacked again. You come too, Loudewater," he said to the erstwhile farmer. As the companions stirred with the sluggish movements of tiredness, he helped Luinien to her feet. "How is your shoulder?"

She smiled wanly. "It hurts, but I can feel my arm now. I'm not going to keep it in the sling much longer or it will get too stiff."

"How close did that club come?" His eyes were very intent. She had not told him much.

Luinien met his gaze for an instant. "Close," she said with an arch look, and turned away to join Silrûth. The pair made a piquant contrast: one strong and fair, the other lithe and dark.

--------------------------------------

Veryadan's wounds were by far the most serious. They secured him with the uptmost care onto Luinien's mount, and the sure-footed mare carried him gently down the hill to their new position. Now the Ranger lay unmoving, wrapped in blankets, while Menecar built a fire to heat water. The horses of Veryadan, Osric, and Aidwain had bolted when the trolls first attacked, but the rest of their mounts were still safe.

"We need to get Veryadan to shelter," Tarondo said. "He needs healing and care that we cannot give in the wild. Bree is the closest, but we need to know where our enemies are before we try to take him there."

"If we make a run for it we may get through," Osric volunteered, but Tarondo shook his head.

"We're not going to risk his life on that possibility. Don't be fooled, Osric. They only surprised us because they were watching us, and they are most certainly watching us now. If we left now they would know it. And if they ambushed us along the road, Veryadan would have no chance."

"I agree," Menecar said. A few others murmured in assent.

Aidwain spoke up, "Bree is not the only place to find shelter, and for healing, where is better than Rivendell?"

Thoronmir shook his head. "Much too far," he said.

Tarondo held up his hand. "Let us discover our enemies before we decide our route. Silrûth, would you please scout the road behind us?" The Elf rose without a word. Luinien looked meaningly at Tarondo and picked up her bow, but he shot her a stern glance and continued. "Menecar, take the road to the west, if you would. I want to know if there are any orcs or trolls within a mile of either road." The Ranger nodded, and the pair faded into the dim late-afternoon haze.

Thoronmir and Osric began attending to Veryadan, cleaning his wound with the hot water. Aidwain nursed his ankle and kept an eye on Loudewater. Tarondo turned to his sister and found a decided glare fixed on him. Refusing to rise to the bait, he decided not to be the first to open the subject.

She could not wait very long. "Why wouldn't you let me go on scout?" she said in a fierce, low voice. "I'm quieter than Menecar, and I know the land better. Besides" -

"Besides, you're hurt," he interrupted. Continuing over her protest, "I know that you're very slightly wounded, certainly no more than Menecar. And a scout shouldn't need to fight. But that is no assurance that you wouldn't have to. We know there's an enemy out there." Luinien pursed her lips sulkily, but the resentment was fading out of her face.

"Most importantly, since Veryadan is hurt I need to discuss the situation with you. I have considered the reports, but I would like to hear your thoughts."

"It seems clear that orcs and trolls are behind what has been happening," she started at once, then thought for a bit. "I would say the trolls were the primary force in the violence," she resume, more slowly. "The crude brutality we saw is more their characteristic than the orcs'. But although they could carry out such acts on their own, I doubt they would have the persistence for a lengthy campaign. Even less do they have the intelligence to conceal their presence, even if they thought of it." She paused again. "Since it seems clear that the trolls are working with the orcs, I would guess that the planning and intelligence belong to the orcs."

Tarondo had been watching her with a gratified smile. "That is exactly what I concluded," he said. Luinien looked at him, startled, then blushed with pleasure. "But why would the orcs be organizing the trolls in the first place?"

"Love of destruction?" she hazarded.

Her brother shook his head, dissatisfied. "They would do such a thing once, themselves, on a whim; or perhaps to avenge a loss or a grudge. But an entire campaign? There must be a more unifying motive behind it."

"Perhaps someone is getting a big head."

"Perhaps." Tarondo mused. Unbidden his mind fled back to the Whittleworth's, but this time he remembered something. Abruptly he turned to his sister. "Silrûth went inside that farmhouse, and she found a small hiding place in there that was empty. What could have been in there?"

"Trolls like valuable things... like gold... and then they cache it..."

"And what one hides, another can find." Tarondo nodded. The pieces were falling into place.

His eyes fell upon Andas Loudewater, sitting at the far side of the circle. Instead of being terror-striken, he now looked sheepish and uncertain. He had been looking at Tarondo, but looked away quickly when the Elf's gaze met his. Tarondo remembered him from the Prancing Pony, and he had talked to Thoronmir.

"Loudewater." The man rose reluctantly at the command in the other's voice. He walked across to Tarondo and stood uneasily, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I..."

"Look at me."

Loudewater's eyes ventured back to him timidly. "I, um, I heard you came to do something about the killing 'round here. And, uh, I kinda thought I could help. So I followed you to Weathertop. On Killer." He gestured vaguely at the little brown mule without looking away.

Tarondo looked intently at him. He saw apprehension in the man's eyes, embarrassment and a little fear. But more than that, there was a genuine concern that supported his halting words. And not a vestige of concealment. He glanced at Luinien.

Luinien nodded slightly, and Tarondo turned back to the farmer. "Well, Andas, it seems that you will be staying with us regardless. With those orcs and trolls out there, I would estimate your chances on your own to be nil." He smiled slightly to take the menace out of his words.

The farmer stammered out his thanks and sat down hesitantly when Tarondo gestured. Soon, his shyness forgotten, he was telling the Elf all about Helga and his life back in Bree-land. Luinien excused herself to help with a meal, listening all the while.

[Envinyatar]

Esgallhugwen's post - Silrûth

The tall Elf stood smoothly without a word at Tarondo's command to scout the road that lay behind them. She took her horse quietly by the reins and led her down the east slope of the hill.

Falma's hooves treaded surprisingly soft against the earth as if she knew their need of stealth. Making their way down the path Silrûth strained her ears for any slight sound that could mean the enemy.

The horse stopped abrubtly ears flattened against her head. Knowing what it meant Silrûth dismounted, "now I don't want you running off" she tapped her finger on Falma's soft muzzle, the mare perked up her ears before plastering them back to her head.

Silrûth crept along warily, and with her skills focused on guile and swift movements she was unaware of how long it took her to reach the orc camp. A small mound of boulders and shrubs was close by and she used it to her advantage.

I musn't get too close in case they pick up my scent, but luck was with her the wind was blowing into her face away from the camp. Tentatively and carefully she peered from around the corner of a boulder.

There they were, laughing and hacking up a storm in their vile tongue, the Elf could not help but sneer in disgust, a voice spoke out in her head.

Do not over stay your welcome, they are moving can you not see it?

It was true they were beginning to stir and grunt and with that last thought Silrûth hastily made her way back to her mount. Taking up the reins, she nudged her horse lightly in the flanks with heels.

[Envinyatar]

At the little camp . . .

Veryadan swam in darkness and in pain. He could hear someone moaning in the distance, the voice was familiar. It might have been his own . . . yes, it was his own, though strangely he had no control of it. Hands lifted him up, to a horse. He could feel the movement of the best’s muscles beneath him, sending jolts of pain through his left side. His left arm, in contrast, felt numb. The blow from the Troll’s weapon swam up out of his memory. Hands bore him down from the horse after an eternity, or so it seemed. And he was at last laid down, and made somewhat more comfortable. Someone had moistened his mouth with a trickle of water; there were the flutterings of hands laying something cool against his wound and binding it securely. He drifted off once again.

It was very late in the day by the time he came round; the darkness of mind exchanged for the darkness of night. He could make out the pinpoint stars against the black sky and the flicker of the small cook-fire nearby. The soft clip-clop of hooves drew near; then, the quick light footsteps as the rider dismounted and passed by him. He could just hear the low conversation. It was Silruth, come back he gathered from a scouting mission, giving report to Tarondo and the others. There was no safe passage back to Bree from what she had found. The Orcs and Trolls, licking their wounds for now, were blocking the way west. The company would have to move east, toward Rivendell. Silruth nodded her head toward where Veryadan lay, his eyes closed. Lowering her voice a little more, she asked if he would be able to make the trip. Tarondo was about to answer when the Ranger’s voice rasped out.

‘Don’t plan my funeral yet, you two! I don’t intend to die from these trifling wounds.’ He attempted to sit up and gasped as the pain tore through his left side. Someone had packed the long gash and bound him round the trunk with strips of cloth. He fingered the dressing, noting that it was wet, sticky in places, as the blood seeped through. ‘Bring me a little tea, if you will. My throat is parched.’ Luinien had come to his side by then, assisting him to a seated position. Veryadan pressed his right hand against the wound, splinting it as he moved. ‘I heard we were cut off from Bree – the Trolls and Orcs. We’ll have to head toward Rivendell, don’t you think. There is no other choice. It will take us at least a week of long days’ riding.’ He took the mug of tea and sipped at it, holding it in his right hand. The feeling was just returning to his left arm and he could just barely wriggle the fingers of that hand. As far as he could tell, the limb did not feel broken.

Veryadan leaned his head back against the packs and blankets piled behind him. Someone had put a little poppy in the tea, masked it with honey. He just now recognised the underlying, cloying taste. The pain from sitting up was receding, but so was his grasp on consciousness. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, through closing eyes. ‘We need to make haste. We are too few. Tomorrow . . . go . . .’

He sighed as hands laid him down once again and the blanket was pulled over him. ‘So tired,’ he mumbled, slipping into welcome rest once again.

[Alaksoron]

Osric had just finished poisoning his own arrows and was sharpening his sword when Veryadan sat up. Osric watched him carefully, as he tried to sit up and failed, as Luinien helped him rise to a seated position. Or more truthfully Osric watched the bandage he had made. Veryadan talked for a moment, but Luinien put some poppy in his tea and presently fell back asleep.

Osric sheathed his word, waited for a moment untl he was sure Veryadan was asleep, and gently checked the bandaging. Tarondo smiled, bemused, as he did so. Satisfied, Osric rose, bending his neck so his head wouldn't brush the top of their makeshift shelter. He headed for the exit.

"Where are you going?" Tarondo demanded. "It will be dark soon." Osric replied levelly. "I am going to find my horse." Tarondo gently explained that there was almost no chance that his horse would return, even if he hadn't been eaten by the Orcs. Tarondo sounded sympathetic.

Osric listened patiently, then returned as evenly as he could manage, though his gaze probably gave away some irritation. "Shadow is a trained warhorse. I know he is alive. You will see." Osric was gone before Tarondo could say anymore.

Osric was out a grand total of perhaps a quarter hour. He returned, a satisfied, triumphant grin on his face. Shadow was trotting behind him. Even he looked giddy. Osric walked right past them to where the other horse's were and tethered his horse.