================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Dusk < About 7:53 PM >
IC day is: Ormenel <Heavens-day>
IC date is: 49 Iavas <Autumn>
Moon phase: Last Quarter <HIDDEN>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 17 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3041>
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RL time: Fri Aug 10 15:37:50 2007
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Foothills of the Misties - Near Caradhras
Caradhras sparkles high in the Misty Mountains to your west, the rest of the mountains continuing endlessly from the south to the north, their rugged peaks gleaming. To the east the valley levels out slowly, while directly around you the undulating landscape begins to prepare for winter, the trees slowly shedding their leaves. There is a path which runs to the north and south, while the ground underneath you is thawed and covered with sprinklings of snow

A mix of snow and water falls down from the day sky, drizzling down from the heavens to soak into the ground. The dusk autumn air is cold and dry.

Contents:
Galharth
Lostiriel
Maglind

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Dusk has settled over the foothills, chilling the land with the darkness even moreso than the wintery mix that now falls. To the West, the moutains are bathed in white as snow builds up at the higher elevations. A wind blows from the northeast, bringing with it a haunting howl. Is this a distant wolf? Or is the wind playing tricks? The stars are absent from the sky this eve as winters advanced storm blankets the land.

"We've got to get moving!" Galharth snaps impatiently. "This weather is going to bury the catapult and we'll just be forced to return again in the spring." Pacing in the snow, the ellon looks to the east. "It's not far now."

Staring for a moment at the mountains, Lostiriel feels a blast of wind sting her face, sending flecks of snow with it. Her cloak flaps about her and she moves toward Galharth, listening to the howl with wide eyes. "I should hope its not far." The wind pulls at her long blonde tresses and she pulles up her hood. "What do we need to do to get moving?"

"We've got to get moving!" Galharth snaps impatiently. "This weather is going to bury the catapult and we'll just be forced to return again in the spring." Pacing in the snow, the ellon looks to the east. "It's not far now."

"No, Galharth," calls Maglind from the back, "don't rush ahead." The warden steps forward, holding longbow close. "I'll go and scout, and then follow. It doesn't feel safe."

Glancing to Lostiriel, the Tailor shakes his head. "We only wanted to get a little way from the trees to test the net without interference. It's not far. Only a little ways to the east." Pacing twice more, he turns to the Warden. "Nay, I'll not rush ahead, especially after the last time."

Watching the Guard move off, the Craft Master turns again to the Couier and smiles. "He worries about me, I know. The last time we attempted to recover the catapult, I rushed forward only to meet a Warg nose to snout."

Mithsul's emerald eyes are serious and sharp as he walks from not too far away to stand beside the tailor, gazing off toward Maglind. His ears perk as he scans the land about, his bow close at hand before he speaks in hushed tones. "The Warden is right that it is safer if we stick together, just to err on the side of caution." A twinkle catches in the Sentinels eyes as he turns his gaze toward the Tailor, a grin lifting his lips. "Perhaps a lesson well learned. How big did you say that warg was?"

Nodding, Lostiriel replies, "Still, I am glad there is someone watching out for us. I know everyone keeps reminding me how safe we are but... Well I suppose I am easily frightened by shadows and darkness." Lostiriel sighs, expelling a white plume of breath out into the night air. She listens to Mithsul's question and smiles, a very slight smile. "Indeed, a warg? I would like to hear you expound on that."

"I would hope that I'm a little smarter than I was when we first tested the device." Galharth says with a slight smile towards Mithsul. Looking again to the east, long past the point in which the Warden disappeared, the clothier shrugs. "It's bones might well be still be there. It was as long as our height, with teeth that seemed to multiple each time it opened its mouth. Ugly beast. Just as ugly as the beast it bore upon its back."

Crossing his arms over his chest, the crafter looks to Lostiriel. "The Royal Court and Order at times are at odds, but I swear by all I've heard that it is better that we work with them as a team." Winking at the Sentinel, he adds, "Respect their knowledge as they will in turn respect ours."

"It is good to be cautious when outside our home." Mithsul comments off handedly. His free hand fingers the fletching of a few arrows as he inhales deeply the scent of the dusky air. "However it is good sometimes to experiance new things, if done in moderation. Such as trips, short trips, away." Turning abruptly towards Galharth, his posture one of edged relaxation, head cocked to the left he inquires further about the reason they were out here. "Yuo said before this was a net throwing catapult. Did it catch anything in your trials?"

"You are right about working as a team, of course." Lostiriel grins faintly, and then as Mithsul asks about the catapult, continues, "Indeed. In fact, I know very little about what we are seeking. All I know is that a catapult was mentioned and that it needed to be found. Perhaps you would care to explain more about it?" She shifts, turning away slightly from the direction of the wind as she waits for Galharth to speak.

"I was told once that trouble is to be found outside our home," Galharth said flatly as his smile fades and his eyes seem to grow distant in thought. "That has come to pass each time I've ventured beyond our borders." Falling silent for a moment, the crafter turns towards the Sentinel. "Indeed, we caught a troll." Again he pauses, this time to shiver slightly. From the cold? Or perhaps from the memory? He doesn't say. Rubbing his upper arms, his expression hardens. "T'was a large and powerful beast. Able to walk within the light. It is a sight that you'd never forget I fear."

Turning to Losttiriel, he holds her gaze a moment. "It's a simple contraption. Perhaps I can show it to you once we get all the parts back home." Looking back to the camp the shadow of a smile returns. "Maybe Rhibi will show you it's more pleasant uses."

Approaching from the camp, Thorhur looks around. Seeing the group gathered, he smiles and approaches them. "Well met all," he says, stretching. "How is everyone today?" Thorhur's eyes are blazing with excitment, his cloak hanging loose from his body.

Safe. Is there ever truly such a thing in Middle Earth? In this acursed land, things both foul and fell roam the land ceaselessly; safety is naught but a mindset. One which is easily enough thwarted.

Once Maglind is well beyond the range of the camp, a shadow looms on the western border. It is as though the very earth itself has grown legs and risen. Dirt and rocks crumble and flow from the uprising piece of stone like water.

Unfolding, arms soon sprout free of the massive bulk. And finally, a head appears. Deep eyes of crimson stare twain stars upon those without the camp. Within one hand, a massive axe is raised, double headed; massive with a spike atop it and protruding from the butt of the shaft. A deep chuckle erupts from the creature which stands easily thrice the height of any man or elf.

Death looms over the elves, and a step is taken forth by the behemoth. Laughter escapes the Doom which sifts closer. A voice dripping in malice, deep and threatening, breaks forth like the ocean upon a shore. Two simple words drift over the night air.

"You called?"

The gathering gloom does not diminish Mithsul's appearance, nor his keen eyesight. Still it is not until the unintelligible speech reaches his Leaf shaped ears that he sees the hulking brute, and their impending doom. Dark brows slash upwards in surprise, furrowing lines deep into his forehead, as the new sentinel regains his composure enough to speak hurriedly, "Get back Galharth, Lostiriel.." A glance is given toward where Maglinde disappeared before Mithsul readies his bow, shooting a glance a the Thorhur, perhaps making sure his own bow is at the ready.

Lostiriel's grey-blue eyes widen as Galharth speaks of the troll. As she stands in the wind and the blowing snow beneath the great mountains, a sudden feeling of being vulnerable, of being exposed trembles through her slight frame. She blinks and returns Galharth's gaze as he continues speaking, and nods. "I would greatly like to see it. It seems quite intriguing." Still, there is something which causes fear to wrap its icy fingers around her heart, something which causes a strange trembling to quack its way through Lostiriel's body. She nods to Thorhur but does not speak; words seem to fail her. She hears the dark sound ring out in the air around them and sees the dark figure rise up from the earth. She does not need Mithsul's warning, for she stumbles backward, sucking in draughts of the cold air as she gasps in terror.

"YOU!" Galharth screams out in common tongue. Without hesitation, the clothier reaches over his waist and withdraws his sword. "This is the beast I spoke of!" he calls the the elves, forgetting for a moment that he continues to speak in common. Frustration flickers over his expression and he repeats himself in Sindarin.

Backpedaling a few steps, he calls out. "The camp needs warned! Everyone needs to arm themselves!" Offering the Sentinel a harsh glare, Galharth snaps out, "You would have us back away so what? You might take this creature on your own? Nay Sentinel, your Warden would tell you it is impossible alone."

Turning his attention back to the horrible Troll that still haunts his dreams, the crafter grinds his teeth. "Leave us." he demands in Common tongue in an attempted firm voice.... and yet when he speaks a sound not unlike a mouse being stepped upon comes out with his words.

Laughter rings forth, and Grot watches the clothier with uncontained malice. The sneer of a grin etches his countenance, and the Olog-Hai takes a step forward. "You would live longer if you refrained from giving me orders, /elf/." states the beast, brandishing his axe. Shaking his head, he looks over the gathered company, and grins even wider. "Where is your protector? Who will save you this time?" Another step, and he pauses just two steps from striking distance of the elves. "Come." he beckons, waving the gathered force forward. "Come taste my axe. TREMBLE BEFORE MY MIGHT!!!!"

Thorhur swivels around at the voice he was hoping to never hear. His jaw drops and his eyes stay transfixed upon the Troll. He feels sweat running down his face. Quickly, though, he turns to Galharth. "So this is Him." his voice is nothing more than a squeak, and his eyes remained transfixed on the troll. Then, not understanding the Westron but knowing what was said was anything but friendly, Thorhur regains composure and stares with hate at the Troll. However, he is at a loss for words. Instead he takes his bow out and meets Mithsul's glance before turning back to the Troll. His arms tremble slightly and his face loses its hard look somewhat as he studies the beast standing before him, but trying to focus he readies his bow, his arms shaking.

Maglind, well beyond the safety of the camp, treads gently through the cold ground, bow raised and nocked. The wind is a howling thing, stroking the dust, raising his hair and his cloak.

And then a noise comes from behind, like a boulder falling down a hill, and the warden freezes. Silent, daring himself to turn and look, he beholds the troll in helpless shock.

Maglind sprints back, noisily giving himself notice, shouting: "It is you again! Begone! Run! Flee!" It is uncertain to whom the last commands are directed, but he raises the great longbow, and shoots -- aiming nowhere, anywhere, that might hit Grot.

His gaze never leaving the troll, his expression one of fear mixed with determination, Mithsul responds in a hissing voice.<Sindarin> "You think I want to take /that/ thing on alone?" Mithsul takes the time while the troll and Galharth taunted each other in what sounded to his ears nothing but gibberish to find a likely spot. Maglind's arrival adds some relief to the ellon's demeanor. Planting his feet some distance apart, better for balance, Mithsul takes aim and looses an arrow in the direction of the Troll.

Still frozen, Lostiriel listens as the words are hurled around her, most of which she does not understand. Her eyes are fastened on the great Troll, her fear written plainly across her pale face. The strange words assault her ears and she watches the arrows fly. Something within her strongly desires to flee, but she is numb, unable to move.

"They are near!" Galharth shouts, adding "somewhere...." in a lesser voice, "I hope," he finally says in a whisper. Taking a half step back, the crafter grips his sword tightly with two hands as the arrows fly. At the sound of the Warden's voice, he turns his head slightly, though not completely so to keep Grot within his sights. "We can not flee back to the wood, or he'll follow!" Galharth calls out to the Warden in sindarin.

Looking fully at the beast, he swallows hard. "Arrows will not be enough against his thick skin!" He adds, also in Sindarin, as he settles into a firm stance with his weapon held before him. "Where is Aragorn!"

Thorhur, his eyes still fixed upon the troll, suddenly remembers the bow in his hands. He does not understand what is being said between Galharth and the troll, but he takes his time to ready himself. Deeply breathing, he clutches the bow tightly. His concentration is only for the troll. Breathing again, he pulls his arm back, aims carefully, and lets an arrow fly at the troll.

Arrows streak in, and laughter is the only reply to the volley which skips and bounces off his stoneflesh. Shaking his head, his eyes narrow dangerously. "Your Doom is upon you, Elflings!" he calls, his voice the harbringer. And so it is that he bounds forward, swifter than his size betrays. With one fluid movement, his axe is sweeping downwards and across, aimed for Galharth's upper left leg, his laughter raising as the feeble creatures cower before his might.

"...Your doom," finishes Maglind with a whisper, as he skids to a halt in the dust far behind. "Turn and face me!" he yells, helpless with rage. "Get away from them!"

The ellon raises his bow again and fires, not daring to draw close.

Where is Haldir? And Aragorn? Certainly wherever they are, the sound that errupts from the clothier's lips as the Troll's axe lays into his leg is one of agony. As his armor gives way and bites into the flesh of Galharth's upper leg, blood spatters outwards. Flesh is sliced and as the axe hits bone, he falls with the swing taking him slightly out of Grots reach. A crunch is heard as the bone breaks, and a second gurgling cry pours from the ellon's lips.

Panting harshly, the crafter drags himself a short distance as arrows continue to fly. "Lostiriel!" he begs in a pain filled voice, "I need you to help me get away. I'll not be able to remain conc...." his words faulter and he grimaces as blood weeps from his leg.

Laughing as Galharth goes down under his axe, Grot turns his eyes upon his next victim. Gaze falls upon the form of another bowman near at hand, and he strides closer. Chuckling, looking down upon the one known as Thorhur, he grins. "You shall be next." he states calmly, his axe raising before it swiftly descends, aimed for the right shoulder in a diagonally downward stroke upon the elf.

More arrows streak in, and bounce harmlessly off, offering naught but small slices in his thick hide.

The breath releases from Lostiriel in an explosion as she watches Galharth fall to the ground. For a moment, the blood causes the world to start spinning, but his cry for aid sends her into a flight of action. Her legs are suddenly moving again and she is flying across the ground, hurling herself toward the wounded Clothier. Lostiriel drops onto one knee before Galharth and puts his arm around across her shoulders. "Alright, I want you to listen to me. Keep listening to me, and I need you to respond. Galharth?" Lostiriel puts a great effort into standing again, working on dragging the wounded Elf with her. "Lean on me, and try to walk with your uninjured leg if you can."

Mithsul watches as the Troll seemed not to even notice the arrow, which looked so small in comparison to the beasts body. Edging slightly to the right Mithsul steadies himself once more. His green eyes flash as he moves to stand between the Troll and the retreating edhil. Retreating one step at a time, Mithsul pulls the bowstring taunt, muscles straining as he reaches the zenith of its arc. He holds just breifly to adjusts his aim and he looses!

The scream that comes from Thorhur's mouth as the axe hits its mark is haunting. The pain is unlike anything he'd ever felt. His eyes cloud as he looks up at the troll. "You will meet your end, if not by my hands, then by one of my-," the pain is great. Blood is covering him completely, his armor torn on him. He tries to stand, but can only get on his knees. "Somebody. Lostiriel-," he calls the elleth, unaware that she is helping Galharth, then collapses. He is still awake, but the pain is starting to overcome him. His body feels broken. Then, in the loudest voice he can muster, he yells, "Somebody!"

Between the warden and those he wards. Maglind's eyes, tearless and cold, are fixed there upon Grot. "Do not ignore me!" he screams in broken Common, his sweet baritone cracking like ice.

Carelessly he throws the longbow back around his shoulders, and draws a longsword long hidden under his cloak. He does not know it well, it is apparent, but he springs forward anyway, attempting to hew the great heel.

With Lostiriel's help, and gasping heavily, putting all his weight on his non injured leg, the clothier departs the battle and is gone.

After having helped Galharth escape, and after taking a moment to rip her cloak and tie it tightly about his wounded leg, Lostiriel turns and runs back to the scene of the battle. She focuses upon Thorhur's figure and does not look upon the troll, for if she were to do so, she wonders if she would have the courage to continue. And so, seeing the hopeless and dangerous situation that Thorhur is in, she continues her flight, falling next to him. She swiftly looks into his eyes, and says softly, "Alright, you are going to be alright." Lostiriel wraps her arms across his chest and urges, "Place your good arm around me and run as swiftly as you can."

Thorhur, hearing Lostiriel's voice, puts his arm around her and stands with great effort. It hurts much more to stand, but ignoring the pain, he hangs on to Lostiriel, and limps at a fast pace. He gets along as quickly as he can out of range of the battle, then collapses. "Thank you Lostiriel," he says before losing all senses.

Maglind takes a swing at him with the longsword, but due to his angered cry, Grot was forewarned enough to pull his leg out of the way of the metallic brand. A soft chuckle escapes him, and his eyes alight upon Mithsul before regarding Maglind once more. "You don't like that I ignore you." he states, laughing as he once again looks upon Mithsul. To Maglind, he says, "I shall save you for last." before he sweeps his axe across, aimed for Mithsul's chest.

Before Mithsul had time to string another arrow a towering train slams into his chest. Leather parts like butter, flesh and bone parting only slightly less easily. The impact knocks the breath from his body, the pain spreads in waves. His lips work silently, much like a fish's when found upon the banks of a river. The bow slips from his nerveless fingers to softly thump against the ground, as the ellon falls to the ground. The heavy wound in his chest gaping, blood pouring steadily to the ground. Mithsul slips from conciousness.

One after another. Maglind watches with mouth gaping, horrified. Wide eyes flicker from sword to heel to bleeding ellon: "I cannot wait," he cries, and attempts to dash between Mithsul and the troll. No blow is offered, but he calls, "Sentinel!"

Torn between staying with the wounded and heading back to the battle, Lostiriel is struck by the knowledge that others might be injured and need aid. She pauses for only a second to still her shaking and take a breath of air before she begins running back to the battle again. When she arrives, she surveys the area and spots Mithsul's fallen form. Even from the distance, Lostiriel can tell that the wound is bad, and, seeing that the Troll is alone with Maglind, she worries that there is too little distraction to risk another rescue.

Laughing as yet another goes down in short order, Grot finally turns his attention upon Maglind. A look of malice masks his features, and his lips curl upwards in a vicious grin. "Your turn, little elf..." promises the Overlord of Dol Guldur as he sweeps after the Warden. Chuckling, his double grip upon his axe haft is brought to fruition yet again as he swings the axeblade low, aimed in a strike for Maglind's back.

A cool wind blows against the courier's pale cheeks. A snow flake falls from the darkened sky and brushes against the tip of her nose. Her dress blows about her as the wind continues to whistle. Everything seems to become surreal, and Lostiriel stands staring at the troll and the two felled bodies that litter the ground. For the moment, fear has fled due to some strange sensation that this moment could very well be her last. And yet...can she do nothing while two of the wounded lie so dangerously close to one who will surely kill them? And yet...just what is it that she can do?

One after another, and now it is his turn. The warden turns, bending like a sapling in the storm, and he breaks, falling prone. Pain takes his face and twists it, but he does not cry.

Maglind screams. A jumble of mangled Sindarin, but some words force through: "Fly!" Howling, he reaches for the fading image of Mithsul, and his blood stains the dust.

Chuckling down at the bodies strewn about him, Grot laughs, shaking his head. "Pathetic." he calls out, looking about. Eyes fall upon Lostiriel, and he takes a step back, waving to the two forms at his feet. "Come!" he calls. "I will let you have one trip." His grin grows, and he adds, "Whomever you can help retreat to the camp without them falling to the ground, I'll let live. Whomever you cannot..." He chuckles, letting the threat sit in the air. "But you must be quick."

Trees are few this far out, yet some are still present and must be used accordingly if the elleth perched in one is to give the courier any chance of aiding her fallen kin. With a rapid twist of her arm, she send the falcon toward the troll. Knowing full well the creature may die if hit she must do it. She waits silently in the tree for him to near the troll from behind, dodgin in toward the beasts head. It is only then the Minister stands ready to move onward to another tree and issues forth an angry scream unlike her own, for the lady speaks in eagle. Quickly, loudly, and rushing.

Then she moves of light deft feet westward to another tree, repeating the proccess.

Standing alone, Lostiriel listens to this challenge and heat burts like flame in her heart. Her smooth face contorts with rage and she feels something break within her. She has watched as her comrades have been struck down, has felt their hopelesness along with their own. It is their blood that streaks across her clothing. She does not respond to the troll; she will not reward him with words. She takes off running toward Mithsul, hope flashing in her darkened grey eyes. But as she runs, she is faced with a crushing decision. Will she move for Mithsul and leave Maglind?

The cry goes up, and Grot spins about even as Lostiriel bolts for the downed forms. Ducking his head, he spins about once more as the bird passes him by...

...and ceases his attack, laughing. "An appetizer!" he roars, shaking his head. Then, he returns his gaze upon the elf woman who races to attempt to save two figures.

Rushing feet go by, captured in cold, wide eyes as Maglind pushes his head forward, staring. For a moment his gaze flickers, here, there, passing -- a small smile touches the warden's lips, and he turns back to the dust.

With pain rising in her throat, Lostiriel is unable to look at Maglind as she grabs up Mithsul's form. She wraps both arms around him and pulls him up, staggering for a moment as she begins dragging his body away from the troll. Then, righting herself, she manages to pull Mithsul away as quickly as possible.

Shadows hang heavily westward, clinging elusively to the Misty Mountains and stalking the heavy, dirty snow. A keen eye -- an Elven or eagle eye -- may yet notice that the natural shades of night are not alone: there is more.

Two -- no, three -- figures move amongst the night, briskly passing north and eastwards. The foremost figure raises a hand, motioning for a halt. And then, from there, it retrieves longbow, and works to string it.

Haldir shakes his head, speaking in an undertone: "I was wrong."

Niinaeth moves again, back to her orginal position and continues her rant in eagle as the falcon continues his do work. The troll isnt as easily confused as she hoped and after another attempt to draw his attention skyward, she drops to the ground and begins running toward the fallen Maglind as his attention is focused on Lostiel.

Laughing as the girl picks one, not trying for both, Grot nods at her decision. "You and that one will live this night." he calls, grinning, his lafter raising even higher as he shifts to loom over the downed form of Maglind.

Looking down upon him, his voice raises, taunting the prone form before him. "Your Doom is upon you, Elfling. The last thing you shall see in this life is my axe." And thus he stands, preparing to strike Maglind, yet the strike does not come.

It is then, as the carnage appears to reach its height, that the browning leaves of the trees nearby stir once more. From their midst bursts a new figure, tall by the reckoning of menfolk, and in his hand two-thirds of a longsword rests; the tip lost as if hewn away. So comes Strider upon the ambush, and in the fading light his sea-grey eyes flit towards Grot.
A frown furrows his brow as his breath catches in his throat, the leather of his cloak settling into place along his back as he watches. The plight of Maglind is not lost upon him and with a cry he joins the assault.

"Elendil!" rings out as he charges to meet the olog-hai; his broken blade slashing as he passes at the fell brute's ankle. "Face me instead, filth!" he cries on, perhaps to lure Grot away from the edhel.

Aragorn attacks Grot with his Longsword and mildly wounds him!

One more gesture, a swift circling motion, and Haldir strings bow, retrieves arrow, and fits it to string -- all one brisk, fluid, practiced motion, no doubt borne of countless years of practice.

One figure breaks off from the marchwarden, and begins to circle around northwards.

The Silvan Elf, though, does not move: the strung and fitted bow is drawn, bending to nearly a full circle. It is then released, arrow flung towards the troll Grot.

Haldir is quiet, however, choosing instead to let (the more foolish?) Aragorn draw attention.

Pain; slight, but the most these elves have been able to muster against the Olog-Hai this fell evening, breaks over his leg. A soft growl escapes Grot even as he turns about, and an arrow catches his left flank, clattering along, and drawing a descent furrow along his stone skin. "FINALLY!" he howls, laughing as he turns about to face Aragorn. "Perhaps you will pose more of a challenge than these Elflings." Looking down upon Maglind, Grot sends a glob of saliva hurtling down at the elf, before stepping towards Aragorn. "Pathetic."

Approaching slowly, he grins, eyes catching sight of the figure of Haldir. "Can you not fight me alone, human? Are you so afraid of the Overlord of Dol Guldur that you bring elves to shoot at me while we fight?" Stepping well away from Maglind and the other wounded, Grot watches Aragorn's reaction, not yet making a move to attack. "Come. Let us match skill for skill, and see who becomes the victor."

Returning, Lostiriel's face is set and determined. She is running desparately for she can not leave Maglind alone. But when she returns, her eyes widen for the battle has grown larger again, and someone has already run to the aid of the fallen elf. Circling around the battle, she says to Niinaeth "Perhaps, together, we can move him quickly. He is badly wounded, though, and I fear..." Here she stops and shakes her head, clearing it. She grabs hold of him and waits for Niinaeth to do the same.

A deep sigh escapes Niinaeth lips as Aragorn appears drawing the troll away. She reaches down snatching roughly at the Wardens leg and begins dragging him away as quickly as she can. "Ignorance again...perhaps we should burn all the trees, highly over rated it would seem by some."

Aragorn meanwhile has also caught sight of Haldir, or so one would think from the nods of thanks sent the Marchwarden's way. The Dunadan backs off a pace or two, slowly circling the olog-hai, and a grim, mirthless smile is given in reply to Grot's challenge.

"Skill I deem is not your chief ally, ogre. Rather you should look to your strength, and then only to bear you away from here at speed. Else I promise you this, you shall not leave to assail these folk again."

The other figure that was with Haldir departs southward, hurried, silent steps carry him away from the scene of carnage.

Haldir, however, opts to do the opposite, as stride begins to carry him closer to the Overlord of Dol Guldor: there is a tentative caution to it, but determination leads it forward.

It is a mocking confidence that rings in voice, slow as it is as it twists the uncouth westron language around fair Silvan tongue:

"Are you so afraid of my arrows that you find them a threat? Why else even mention it?"

Much, much, quicker is the arrow that the marchwarden retrieves from quiver and prepares -- a moment later, and it is gone, hurtling through the air towards the massive behemoth.

The longsword grasped tightly in Maglind's hand rings faintly as it skips along the ground; shadow grows darker here and there as blood spills. But the warden is blissfully senseless.

The arrow strikes his shoulder, and bounces harmlessly away. A laugh escapes Grot's lips, and he shakes his head. "Come, then, if you wish to meet your death also, this day." And then, without further sparring of words, the Olog-Hai is swift to action.

Leaping forward, Grot's mighty axe is thrust in a tentative strike, aiming the head spike for Aragorn's chest.

With Niinaeth's aid, Lostiriel helps drag Maglind away. She agrees with Niinaeth's statement, but she does not speak. Her heart is too full of horror and sadness. Her arms begin shaking as they drag the body further and further away from the troll, but she does not lessen their speed.

The spike of the Overlord's axe rips air clean asunder, but as for the flesh of Aragorn it tastes naught. The Dunadan will, however need to seek a tailor should he survive this encounter, for as he darts aside the strike his sleeve is torn open ans quite ruined. Warily, the son of Arathorn backs off anew, though not before stabbing at the thick palm of Grot; a bid mayhap to keep the olog-hai at bay as he retreats.

Haldir's forward hurry tarries momentarily, even as Grot lunges towards the son of Arathorn: he watches, eyeing the motions of the human carefully, almost with interest. But, that all happens in a breath of a moment, and the marchwarden continues anew.

"Shall I give you respite, troll? One human might be too much for you."

No new arrow is drawn -- no new arrow attempts to bounce harmlessly from stony flesh.

Laughing, Grot shakes his head, though not before his hand is pricked, and jerks back from the pain offered. "Elf, get in line. Or come at me also, if you wish. Either way, I shall gladly cleave your head from the rest of your pitiful body."

With these words, Grot once again charges forth, his axe once again sweeping in. This time, it is a downward stroke aimed at the sword arm of the son of Arathorn; an attempt to disarm the pesky Ranger.

Yet the Dunadan has had time to prepare, and stealing a glance to the Marchwarden anew he then spins away with a nimble gait; snatching back his arm in time to save it from the wrath of Grot's axe. Once again his own weapon lashes out, this time at the monstrous outstretched wrist, ere he circles the Overlord so that he and Haldir stand on opposite sides.

Maybe a bit rougher than needed, Niinaeth passes the hidden camp and heads toward the shelter of the trees with Maglind. "Do not ever leave the trees Lostriel." She twists her head looking over shoulder at Maglind and sighs, "Need I say why?"

"Have you not learned?"

Haldir shakes his head in disbelief, the motion sending shadowy-grey hood down upon broad shoulders, revealing in full flaxen locks of hair, which glimmer faintly in the pale light that escapes the overcast sky.

"You are not skilled enough to fell me. We decided that last time!"

The marchwarden continues forward, pausing only to unstring longbow and retrieve shield and sword. He draws closer -- but not yet close enough for an attack.

Roaring as his wrist is struck, Grot once again swiftly retracts his hand. Shaking it, his axe held by one hand, he glares daggers upon both Aragorn and Haldir. "You shall both become fodder for the trees of which you are so fond." he promises, his axe sweeping about and sweeping forth with devastating speed towards Aragorn's left side.

But once again the man is too swift, and even as the mighty blade thunders his way Aragorn has a chance to hurl himself backwards. Rolling with the effort, as the axe slices open the night before him, Aragorn permits himself a second grim smile and calls out: "Rather, as the years pass the trees shall grow over your body, Overlord as you call yourself, and their roots shall crumble away even the memory of your evil life."

With that taunt laid down, Aragorn back away; further from where Haldir advances.

Still in shock, Lostiriel nods at Niinaeth's words. "You are right. I have never been so terrified in my life and...and look at what has happened!" Lostiriel looks at Maglind's bloodied body, then back at the fighting, and blanches. She sighs as they reach the shelter of trees and can go no further. She let's go of her hold on Maglind and collapses in a heap onto the ground next to him, her head falling into her hands as she shuts her eyes tightly, blocking out the sight of his blood.

"He loves trees?"

Mock-shock rings in the tone of the marchwarden as he continues forward, quick glance shot towards the son of Arathorn, measured gait and stride bringing the Elf within reach of the Overlord.

"I knew not! I must thank you for this new information."

And, so saying, Haldir attacks: a cautious spring forward, attempting to plant himself directly behind Grot and out of reach of fell axe -- longsword springs forward, itself, aimed to swipe at what might be the troll's hamstrings.

The cloaked figure who hurried away southward from Haldir emerges from the trees by Lostiriel and Niinaeth, grey glance quickly surveying the two -- and those fallen. Silken Sindarin comes from the warden, for such she is, as she asks, concerned glance resting primarily upon Lostiriel:

"Can you make it to the field hospital? There will be help waiting."

"There is no time for that Lostriel." Speaks the Minister as a small bag is produced from her side, "Little can we do but attempt to stop the blood." From the bag she brings out cloth she hands to the elleth, "Bandage what you can, you must get used to this." A shrill whistle comes from her small lips bringing the falcon to her side and gives him a small silver leaf broach then sends him on way. She looks upward to the voice with a smirk "They will know we are coming before we arrive, it is our job. You deal with that...beast."

Even as Haldir's words ring forth, and the elf springs at his hamstring, Grot is alread spinning to his left and out of range of the offending weapon. Right foot plants, left drifting out behind, and the axe is swiftly brought across, aimed for the back of the Warden to drive him towards Aragorn.

Quick as a flash, as if waiting for such an opening, the heir of Isildur springs forward; a strafing run past the beast's gargantuan leg. Narsil, blade of Elendil of old stabs down at Grot's calf as he goes, and in a flurry of feet Aragorn reaches the other side of th Overlord, again opposite Haldir.

Brought back to her senses, Lostiriel lifts her head and looks up for a moment at the cloaked figure, but Niinaeth's voice distracts her. She takes the bandages and goes to work on the wounds, attempting to hault the flow of blood. "There are others... They were wounded just as badly. I ripped my cloak into pieces to help stop the blood. Galharth, Mithsul, and Thorhur." She shudders but continues her work. "Do you think... Do you think he will be alright? I could only take one. That's what he said. Only one. I took Mithsul... But we have Maglind now." Her rambling continues as words pour out. "One by one, I watched it all happen. Galharth was the first to fall...a wound to the leg. Then Thorhur...it was his arm. Mithsul was broken it seemed. And then I was alone with...it... And I could only pick one." Though she makes little sense, Lostiriel can do nothing to stop the stream of words.

Haldir spins, partially, the motion a continuation of missed longsword swipe.
The cloak of deceit worn by the marchwarden rends easily as the stroke of the Overlord finds it: a long gash is torn in the side, for icy armor only partially deflects that cruel axe. Any further results are hid by shadow and movement.

"I remember now why I left you in times before: you are not worth the trouble."

Nevertheless, the marchwarden does not give up his attack: feet push upon the snowy ground, propelling him further around the Overlord of Dol Guldor, before blade swings out again, aiming for the shin of the troll.

"My job is to protect Lothlorien and those in it, Minister," replies the warden, a glare shot at Niinaeth, "this is part of it." She pauses for a moment, listening to the stream of words that comes from the courier, before asking: "Where is Thorhur? Is he safe, or still upon the field?"

Niinaeth simply nods at the couriers words, "It has been seen before. Let those who know his ways handle him. That is your lesson learned." Standing slightly, she leans down to Maglind and pulls him up and over her shoulder, "Aid will come for the others, perhaps on its way now, that I can promise you." Falling silent the Minister heads into the forest packing carrying Maglind." Another smirk of digust toward the Warden is given without pause, "Then by all means protect warden. I will do the small work and carry the dying."

Smeared with dirt and blood from his rough rescue, Maglind stirs. One eye blinks open, dilated and glassy with numbed pain. "I thought ... you went away," he manages to whisper, addressing the air.

Howling in fury as Aragorn's sword sweeps across his leg, Grot stumbles a little; enough for Haldir to catch him upon his opposite shin. Growling low, eyes narrowed dangerously, he eyes the two opponents arrayed before him, spots more forms lingering about. "I will see you upon the field again, /human/." calls Grot to Aragorn, before he turns, and begins half running, half limping to the east, away from these infernal creatures and their painful blades.

Lifting her grey eyes to the warden, Lostiriel nods. "I managed to drag him, along with the others, back to camp." Lostiriel stands, but the after-shock of the whole experience is hitting her and her legs begin to shake. She takes a moment to breathe and then moves toward the camp. "I should go to them now." So saying, Lostiriel passes into the camp.

But the son of Arathorn seems not ready to end the duel just yet, for he gives chase as the brute charges off; legs pounding to keep up with the olog. Out swings his blade in a desperate slice at the Overlord of Dol Guldur's hamstring, ere he is outpaced.

"And you will not see me, as the first time we met, for I am too skilled for you to spot me!"

Haldir calls after the departing troll, words flying just slower than ire-filled glare which follows the Overlord eastward, for the marchwarden does not give chase: he looks southward, now, concern filling gaze.

And to the south ...

"Then do so, and be quick about it," says the warden, one final glance given to the minister, a depressed shake of head accompanying the motion. "Thank you, mellon," says she to Lostiriel, following the courier to the tent, and beginning

Howling as his leg is struck yet once more, Grot says naught else, merely continues on his charge for the east, and away from those who would harm him.

And as those huge limbs charge on, they leave behind shorter, more fatigued ones. Aragorn slows to a halt and watches the mighty beast leave; a rueful gleam in his eyes were any to see it. A moment's vigil longer, and he sheathes his blade once more, to turn back to face the quendi.

The Dunadan sniffs once in thought, ere concern writes itself upon his features also he hastens back to join them.

Haldir hurries southward, toward the wounded and ... wounded; grim disapproval and surprise is writ upon furrowed brows of concern. His pace is brisk: soon, he will be upon them, to lend aid in carrying those fallen.