His eyes suddenly flash, as if startled, as he comes up to two orcs, Ogral and his fellow Guruok. "Hola! Stop!" he says, holding his hands out frantically and stops in front of them.
"Come, we have an errand. A tark! A tark!" he says in a impatient panic, pointing up the stair.
Guruok is walking in from the messhall, speaking under his breath to Ogral, a logaz, probably a report, or something about the battle from yesterday. He has a few wounds from said battle, but appears to be back to full strenth, he obviously was skilled enough to avoid greater injury. Under his arm is tucked the war standard he has been charged to guard, he hasnt put it down since he returned to camp. Without warning he is accosted by a Rakarg, babbling something about Tark's and stairs. Gathering more information from the pointing finger than the bubbling words, he takes a brief look at Ogral before obeying the order and truding up.
The Ushataar Krimpatul stares icly at the Rakarg as it interrupts the conversation, then he stares at Guruok, "We shall finish this another time, Dog." The mass of muscle speaks, his temperment slow and icie. He nods at the Rakarg, and begins to follow him. The heavily muscled beast strides at a fast pace, keeping up with the Rakarg, he doesn't bother to look at the Dog if it follows or not. The large orc lumbers at a quick pace as his tattered cloak flows behind him, his crimson eyes blink around the halls as he follows the Rakarg.
<Taken by WK>
Wow... how'd you get in here? Oh well, it's your loss; and you wiped your feet, right? So, what do you think? Yeah, it's me... nothing really special or spectacular. A comfy looking chair and a blow-up couch for furniture, as well as a small icechest full of root beers and lemonade. A coffee table with a soft back copy of the Book of Mormon and a touch-light. No, no bathroom. Not inside of me, I won't have it. But relax. And if you take something, it might be important and I could die without it. That's bad, so don't steal. :)
Dropped.
Dol Guldur Road
Looking far ahead to the west, one may see the Dol Guldur road stretch out before you, disappearing in the distance at a bend. Except for this one bend, the road is perfectly straight. The road seems sturdy and well traveled with foundations which are laid deep. Though the surrounding trees constantly threaten it, obstructions are repeatedly cleared by the ever present Orcs who use this path.
To the east in an opening of the trees where the line of the road continues can be seen the full height of Amon Lanc, the volcanic hill housing the fortress of Dol Guldur. Smoke can be seen rising from it's black shape at all hours of day and night, giving evidence of the mighty forge beneath, second only to the furnace of Orodruin in Mordor.
More immediately pressing than the distant Orodruin or even Amon Lanc is the forest which looms all about you, dark and menacing. The feeling of hatred and opression seems to come from the very trees which surround you; a hatred for all who walk on two legs. The blackness beneath the boughs is also a blackness of the heart. Evil from evil spreads and few creatures who live so long beneath the shadow of Sauron may remain untouched by him.
Contents:
Ogral
Grot
Mordor Forest
Obvious exits:
Road East and Road West
Thorondur has arrived.
The broad-shouldered Rakarg jogs, leading two stout orcs behind him. His eyes are alert and his face is blanched, as if he had seen a ghost; or worse. Panting, he comes to a stop where a few other able scouts have gathered. He turns to Ogral and Guruok.
"Here..." he begins, catching his breath. He points to the trees about them and then down the road.
"We got some scouts and watchers about here and stuff. Since we've been told ta patrol more, we have. And look what i' brought us! A tark. A brave one, no less." he says, bending over, gasping. "The Wraith gave orders to capture 'im, so der ain't no killin' it!"
A tall man and slender, both lordly and reserved in bearing. Sharp of eye, so strikingly blue, about him there is a certain presence of unyielding strength, confidence and optimism made flesh. Upon a thick shock of hair, dark as night, and about his brow is bound an unadorned circlet of silver: It speaks of the High Men, and one whose prowess stands high even among these. No legend come again, perhaps -- but a mirrored vision, a dim reflection of fallen kingdoms and glories long past.
Clad in dusty black riding leathers and a radiant mantle of snowy white, for comfort and efficiency -- not the sake of appearance -- he strikes a dashing figure without great effort. Lithely muscled, slender limbs are clothed loosely, and a harness of light mail beneath his shirt hints at the readiness of a warrior, always lurking just below the surface.
Belt, boots, and gloves are not black, however, but a tawny brown; sword and scabbard are serviceable, not decorative. On his left breast, the golden Star of Dol Girithlin is quartered with Thorondur's personal Dark Eagle, on fields of violet and gold, respectively. A steel cap is fit snugly on his head, and he carries a round shield, unadorned.
The congregation here consists of less than ten or so orcs, all furtive and deadly quiet. They seem to be peering in the same direction...
...down the empty Dol Guldur road, westward.
Somewhere above the black forest -- there beyond in the high places, free yet and untainted by the Shadow's touch -- bright Arien begins her daily travels. Here, though -- here beneath the darkling eaves -- the rays of dawn come not. Silent and watchful, foreboding is the mood of this forest of evil.
And into the silence comes a ringing... the militant song of hoofbeats, steel-shod hoofs upon the road.
The sound of one horse, and no more. One horse and no more, from the west -- alone.
The tall, muscled Orc stands as if he were a pillar. His crimson eyes stare out into the direction of the pointing Rakarg. His keen crimson eyes peer out, yet they are hindered by the slight brightness of the sun. He growls slightly as he looks back at the Rakarg, "Rakarg, if you could move your men to the west, we could possibly flush it north, and then we could ambush it here?" The Logaz asks as he stares at the Rakarg.
The sound of hoofbeats seems to bring color back to Grot's clammy face. A smile cracks the darkness. He waves, pointing to the sides of the road and quickly the others dive into the shadows on either side. He swiftly turns to the two new recruits.
"Well...he ain't gonna come willingly, but I got enough boys to bring him down if -" he pauses, grinning as he's interrupted. "Perhaps, but it's too late. Now we, you and me, are gonna be fodder while da nets are casted. Take out 'is horse when he comes." he snips, turning now to face the unseen rider, his hand on the hilt of his sheathed scimitar.
There he stands as a sentry.
Guruok nods in agreement to the Logaz beside "I agree Logaz, that seems the best plan for capturing this human alive." With these words, he slowly and without noise, pulls a heavy blade out of the sheathe at his side. Then he hears the words of the Rakarg. "Fodder? We are uruks of the eye, we will be no fodder, we shall stand here and cut the human from his beast and torture him until he gives us no more trouble." With these words he pops out the war-standard he carries from under his arm and rams it into the earth behind him, before moving to stand beside Grot.
The ringing of the hoofs grows ever louder, their cadence now ever more clear. Soon -- there!
A flash of white, and around the southwestern bend -- yes, there, from behind a stand of ancient, twisted, tormented oaks -- he comes at last.
Upon a warhorse of silvery coat, a mortal Man rides. Clothed in a swirling mantle of purest white like snow, he comes openly toward Dol Guldur itself. A Lord of the Dunedain, accoutred for war.
Ogral nods slightly at the Rakarg, then turns to the Dog as he mutters some tark like speach. He considers it and nods, "Very... 'warming' Dog, now when you're finished, follow me over here, I'm sure your little pretty banner will be safe with the Rakarg, this way..." He says, gesturing towards a nearby rotten shrub to hide in until the tark comes this way. Not caring if the Dog had the sence to follow him, the Logaz bends slowly down, his large muscles creek as he does so. He peers out of the bush as the white horse comes up, "Why do they bother to ride such useless beasts of burden when they could feed ten Tek'raks!" The Orc exlaims in a hushed voice. He unsheaths his battle axe and sets it on the ground, waiting for the nets to come into play...
COMBAT - Wielded: A black-hilted scimitar
Ogral pulls a great battle axe off his back and hefts it with two hands.
Ogral slides a vest of dirty black ring mail over his Ushataar Krimpatul uniform, then slipping on a small red leather best.
A hiss of steel and a warning rises to meet the heavy hoofbeats; shaky at first is the voice of the Rakarg but soon, remembering the territory, he booms loudly.
"Hola, tark!" he says, now wielding his scimitar. "You ain't much for smarts, I say." he says in challenge. As the horse hears towards him, however, he whistles impatiently.
With that, a clamour of harsh voices rain from the trees and two dozen orcs, at least, pour from the shadows to meet the horseman. Divided in eight, each squad dons a wide and weighted net. However, no attempt to seize the mad-tark is made in the fray...
Closer they come, horse and rider. Eyes aglimmer with a light too fierce for lucidity, the knight glares down at this Orc before him.
"Aside, worm," he cries aloud, voice clear and strident in the smothering darkness! "I come to challenge the Lord of Morgul! Where is he?"
And even then the swarm surges forth. Not yet surrounded, not yet engulfed, the knight spurs his steed's mighty flanks. They lunge forward, and a glittering sword flashes downward, dealing death --
An Orc falls, then another.
Along with the Orcs pouring out of the woods, the bulky lumbering Ushataar Krimpatul Logaz leaps out of the bush with unknown and great dexterity, he rushed towards the tark, but along with other orcs he does not attack either. He swings his axe idly in the air, not yet attacking the idiotic tark he waits for it; either to calm down, or to be trapped, no need in damaging the King's favoured prize.
Guruok looks in scorn at the logaz as he crouches down to hide. "I have commands from the Rakarg to stand with him, Logaz, not hide behind a tree, and stand with him I will, protecting Khamul's Standard and capturing this tark for the greater glory of the eye! Gripping his scimitar tightly, he watches the human flash foward, sword flicking down, and sets himself. With a cry to the eye, filled with blood and agony, he charges foward, yelling loudly to attempt to startle the large beast the Tark rides, then flails his scimitar at the beast to try and bring it down.
You half-blindly attack Thorondur with your Scimitar...
Thorondur dodges your attack.
ARB: Thorondur has "passed" on his turn to attack.
Grot's eyes flash and fear consumes him again as the Knight, like a silver arrow, plunges into the mess of orcs. Stumbling backwards, he trips over the standard planted behind him and hisses a curse as he hits the ground.
"Skai! The nets, quick, the nets!" he snorts loudly from a bruised ego and rump. He points madly at the valiant Dunadan. "The horse! Skin it!" he adds as he skitters to his feet.
Bred swift upon the rolling plains of the Belfalas, it ran in its youth near the Sea. Noble and valiant, the silvery steed is innocent of his rider's madness -- yet for his knight he pays the ultimate price.
With a scream too terrible to hear, almost human in its agony and grief, the horse buckles under Thorondur, falls to the butchery of Orcish axe and spear and wicked blade.
Awash in blood -- it stains his white cloak scarlet, then crimson as it dries even as more erupts around him -- the Dunadan fights on. Another Orc falls, and another to this heir of Westernesse, but the nets are rising in grasping hands....
"Murazor! Bring me Murazor!" cries the Knight of Gondor, his blade lashing out like avenging lightning.
Guruok is sprayed red with blood as his scimitar seek's and finds it's way into the neck of the large beast. After his slash, he pulls back slightly, before in his berserk rage, he looks for another target. Being that there is only one, it is unsuprising that Thorondur becomes the object of his wrath. Scimitar raised high, he bridges the gap between them and with a savage grunt, engages the human, caring not that his fellows have fallen before this warrior, not caring that he too is likely to stain the forest floor with his dark blood. His curved blade swipes out, keeping the human busy until the nets can be put into place.
The Logaz blinks at the Dog as he tries to attack the tark on its high steed. If Ogral weren't such a cold skai, he'd be on the ground laughing right now. But instead he continues to swing his large, metal battle axe with ease in one hand. As the tark moves to attack the orcs, Ogral rushes towards the horsed tark, his axe hefted in two hands, he ingores the filthy tark whom slays the orcs with a rapid skin, he moved for the kill, quick and easy. He rises the axe into the air, and all that can be heard is the whistling of the axe's blade as it soars towards the horse's huge head. Smashing into its skull of the tark beast, as well as another orc's spear into its rear leg, brings the horse down. The Ushataar rushed towards the tark, he swivels the axe around, using the non-lethal handle as weapon as he goes to strike the tarks knee, not wanting to wound it, but still, he takes a risk by simply putting all his accuracy into a quick put-down.
Ogral attacks Thorondur with his Battle Axe and lightly wounds him! (/10)
You half-blindly attack Thorondur with your Scimitar...
Thorondur dodges your attack.
Thorondur glances at you.
Indeed, the nets come. Those still able to hold them up rush forward; charging the assailant of the West. Soon, they are loosed. A mess of thick web and binding cords black out the minute sunlight as they fly towards the brave Man.
Grot regains his footing and turns, a little bolder now that there is a formidable obstacle between he and the White Captain. He laughs at the sight. "He comes to challenge the Black Captain! Let us take him to Him, then." he chortles as the knight is dismounted.
He wags his finger. "His legs. Tie him up! Skorlak, with the rope. If he gets away, I'll gut you with my knee!" he orders from relative safety.
And now it begins. Overwhelming are the odds against him, but the Dunadan fights on.
Another Orc falls -- truly this Man is a swordmaster -- but there are too many! He is taken from the side, never seeing the blow that turns his shield to splinters.
As the nets fall, bringing their tangled slice of hell, the White Knight cries out once more -- his blade strikes out once more -- "Lacho calad! Murazor, hin Cardolan dregeya!"
Thorondur attacks you with his Longsword!...
...and he hits! Ouch!
ARB: You've been injured for 11 hp's by Thorondur's attack...
...you have 71 left. Please RP this injury accordingly.
Ogral looks up as the any sky light is darkened by the net. He winces his eyes and the net falls upon him. He scowls slightly and swivels his head around, pointing to another Logaz, "Oi! Keep the net down!" He then swivels towards a Dog, "Lift this part of it up so I can get out, but keep the tark trapped! Hear me?!" The Logaz shouts, standing still so not to get entrapped in the net.
Guruok recoveres from his rabid scimitar slice quickly enough to attempt to parry the incoming blow from the human, but is far too slow, taking a slice in his shoulder that slowly seeps black blood out of the rent in his studded leather armor. He readies himself for another blow, but, being so close to the human, he too is tangled up in the net thrown at the Tark. Stumbling over, he drops down prone, still hanging onto the hilt of his scimitar, and biting off curses in urukish at those who caught him. "Let me out!" he screeches in fury.
Great is the fall of the mighty Dunadan, for the orcs, at least. Their work is quick and sufficient. Like ants they swarm the man; some tangled up in the nets with him and some pushing their way forward. Ropes find their ways around his legs and his sword is pinned to the cold forest.
Other orcs work to free their comrades while the Man is bound.
Grot laughs a hiss. "Paha! The Captain of Pulgorburz will give us all a good and many thanks. Drag him..." he snips, waiting for the work to be done.
A bundle of white enmeshed in the cords of darkness, the Man of the West is no easy captive -- nay, for he struggles and thrashes like a man possessed.
For perhaps, he is.
It is not his cloak alone that is paler than snow; these creatures of Mordor know well the mark of the blades forged cold upon Minas Morgul's anvil. And all the while, he calls his angry challenge.
Guruok is helped to wriggle his way free of the nets, the small wound in his shoulder not even noticed as he gets himself out. Stalking to his war-standard, he takes it in his hands and wraps it up, sticking it under his arm for safe keeping. Pushing his scimitar back into his sheath, blood still clinging to it, he smiles, licking a dribble that runs down his cheek. He must look like a red-painted statue at the moment, the arterial blood of the horse having sprayed him completely soaked. Turning again, he eyes the human off while waiting for turther orders from Grot.
Ogral escapes the entanglement of the net with the aid of a Dog. He nods to the Dog and marches towards the Rakarg, unsweathed and unscathed. He resheathes his battle axe over his back and marches towards the Rakarg, standing at his side.
The nets are drawn tight, the rope about the man's feet is hardly gentle. A line of hefty orcs take to the ends of the sealed nets, despite the furious struggle of the Dunadan and his bruising fists.
Their dainty is caught and they begin to drag him along the rocky road, towards the East - towards the fell fortress for which he was so boldly galloping.
His fallen steed is left behind to the carrior creatures of Mirkwood.