================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Late Afternoon
IC day is: Orgilion <Stars-day>
IC date is: 18 Rhiw <Winter>
Moon phase: Waxing Gibbous <VISIBLE>
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: Sat Sep 08
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Northern Fences of Lorien

The rolling foothills of the northwest come to and end here in this river valley, nestled up against the wide Anduin river to your east, and the sprawling forest to your south. This region is called the Northern Fences of Lorien, for it forms the border to the legendary Golden Wood, whose boughs you could soon be travelling beneath, should you venture any further southward. As you look into the dense forest growth which begins only a few dozen yards into the woods, you recall the legends which bespoke of the fateful one-way journeys creatures of evil intent undertook when they chose to desecrate that realm...

Contents:
Raugha bearing Gothshaka
Tolur (Temped by Galharth)
Calsir
Draugh

The sun sinks low upon the horizon, almost as if it is reluctant to say good night. The wood is quiet this evening, the sound of the river might be heard in the distance should one's ears be keen enough. The day animals quiet their scurrying, and the night ones only just begin. Barely visible in the early evening sky, the stars begin their silent dance as the moon looks on.

Up in the tree tops, carefully placing her feet is the Dancer Calsir. An odd accessory dangles from her free hand, that of a bow. Her other hand grabs branches to secure her footing as she picks her way amongst the fire damaged trees. Her gaze flits across the open areas, warily, darting from that of the setting sun to the the burnt wood, to back across the open area. Not taking her safety for granted, especially while night approaches so rapidly. "Hmm, will take some work, but perhaps most of these are not lost." Her voice is but a murmur, one speaking to oneself perhaps, or someone close to her.

As the sun descends, a howl rips the stillness of the Northern Fences. Shrill, lone, and forlorn, it rings with sadness and quivers with depravity.

And it is not alone. A cold chorus of howls rise to answer it, the baying of some monstrous pack. Cold--it is cold tonight, and getting colder. Again the howls--and, far softer, shrill strange chirps.

Moving within the treetops, with a gaze focused to the North, a stern faced Guard paces atop a talan hidden within the thick canopy of one of the trees not affected by the recent fire. As someone approaches from within the wood, the Guard turns quickly to spy the identity of the visitor. "The borders are growing dangerous, Scholar." Tolur says softly in a voice that is low and in tune with the rustling of the leaves. "It is not a place to view the snowy sights," he adds with a slight hint towards the Bard's recent visit to the borders.

Something sounds from the north and he turns with narrowed eyes. Fingering his bow, he slowly scans the landscape.

The howl that sings across the Scholar's ears causes a momentary stiffening of her body, a tightening of her grasp upon the branch to which she hangs. Flicking some of the golden curls away from her shoulder, freeing her vision from anything other then the danger-ridden lands that signal the end of the Golden Wood. Easing her way back toward the gaurdsman, learning well her lesson from a previous foray out upon these fences, Calsir speaks, her own voice ruefilled and sounding almost repentive. "Aye, so I have had ample lessons. However before the trees that have been marred by the past violence should suffer more I had hoped to be able to carry back word to the Foresters on their condition." A tapered fingered hand runs the length of one patch of blackened bark, coming back soot stained. "Do you think that howl was of a simple wolf?" Her words were a question, yet the wariness and suspicion riding deep within her blue eyes attest to other beliefs.

Again the howl. Again the squeaks. And now, a shrill and horrible laughter from afar ... as the sun drops behind the horizon, the howling comes nearer, and then the shrill laughter turns into booming giggles, stentorian despite their high pitch. And a song ...

"Claw rake and head take,

Spleen roast and liver bake,

Scramble and dash,

Axe clash

Warg howl, orc growl

Ride down in force, boys

Ride down, my lads!"

"Do what you need to do," Tolur says softly as he steps closer to the edge of the talan. "So much more is heard upon the border, many things once innocent...." The Guard falls silent as he takes a few steps to the left to change his view. His expression flickers with concern and tension. "Bring back your report Scholar, and with it bring forth the increased threat." A deep breath is drawn as something vile carries along on the breeze, followed moments later by a whistle and several bird calls sounding through the tree tops. A warning? A suspicion? Perhaps both. Releasing his breath slowly, he moves along the edge of the talan once more, looking outwards to the north. "Bring back a warning to our people, Scholar. Danger lurks and grows bold."

Finally reaching her destination near the guardsman the elleth stops, her grip upon the bow tightening. "Many are now aware of the dangers that seem to lurk closer then in previous years. Even now a patrol is surely not far behind me." A pink tip of her tongue darts out as the sounds repeat themselves, though even with her keen elven ears she can not make out exactly where the danger, or even if it is true danger, lurks. "I am not trained as you are mellon, but I have recieved the normal training that most edhill do. I will not leave you here until the patrol that surely is coming arrives." Searching eyes cast their gaze back away from Tolur out across the fences.

Into view in the distance comes a column of dust -- and something more than dust. Tiny black shapes wheel and flutter and flap above a loose-knit mass of huge, dark, furry shapes. As they come nearer, they resolve themselves into a fearsome sight: several score black Wargs of the North and an equal number of riders in armor, skimming through the thin trees with their mail clashing and their weapons waving. The song swells to a mocking chorus:

"Men on the ground and elves in the trees!

Where oh where could our enemies be?

Orcs in the dung-pits and dwarves underground!

Where oh where could our foes be found?

Wargs have their nostrils and we have our knives --

Come out, pretty foes, for the end of your lives!"

The Guard's eyes grow wide, and his expression blank as he catchs sight of the dust rising along the north. With a single nod of his head towards the sight, his lip quivers slightly before he speaks. "Perhaps you might reconsider your pledge to stay until the patrol arrives." Tolur mutters softly.

Reaching over his shoulder, he draws an arrow. As he does, he emits a soft bird call once to the east, and then again to the west. Looking towards the Dancer, he frowns. "Be silent, for your life may depend upon it. We will watch, and should all go well, they will pass."

Glancing up as a whistle echos through the tree tops, his frown deepens. "For any that might break through the wood, they will fall in silence before their second step. Still, the order remains. Silence."

The Dancer's face blanches as she too spies the dust columns. A simple look toward Tolur to let him know she heard his orders, and are following, is given before she too draws an arrow from a quiver. She does not notch it into the bow yet however, instead she holds precariously still so that not even a flutter of branches occurs to betray her position.

"Bats, bats," cries the leader of the orcish patrol, drawing up his huge Warg some hundred yards before the thick forest. "Oh, bats! My precious little minions as dark as pitch and as nasty-snouted as the wickedest of rats! Bats of the Misty Mountains! Bats of our forefathers! Hear them shrill, hear them squeak, hear them cry! Bats, I command you to patrol the perimeter. Fly, my pretties!"

There is a strange moaning sound as the small bat cloud begins to break up into a fluttering cacaphony of furry, winged shapes.

Several riders on smaller wolves pull up ten yards behind the main force of wargs. Bows are made ready as the bts fly off to the south. The old cook, Draugh, is amoung the small group of orc archers.

Setting his arrow against the string of his bow, Tolur stands quietly watching, as the bats fly, the Guard flinches. Lifting an arm up to shield his face his jaw tightens and he ducks slightly to avoice the leathery wings. Silence is what he offers. As the vile breeze sails past, the Guard drops his arm, returning it to it's grip upon his bow.

Turning, he offers the Scholar a slight smile and a nod before he returns his gaze to the creatures moving to the north.

Squatting quickly, agile is this Dancer, braces herself with one hand flat against teh surface of which she stands, the other still grips her bow. A soft mewl is issued from her throat however as the black cloud passes by. The mewl however is soft, muffled by lips pressed together in effort to not make a sound. She does not straighten however, instead she slowly, painstakenly slowly, eases down wrapping her legs for support and then she notches her arrow.

The King of the Orcs laughs again, waving his axe in the air. "Yes, yes, my pretties!" he shrieks. "Fly, fly, scout, scout, and if you find the enemy, chirp!"

How much the bats understand is questionable. They are already chirping madly, zipping around in the dark. Several flap very close to the elven branch, but none seem quite ready to explore deeper than the very outskirts of the woods.

Draugh waves an arm and the small group of archers scatter. They stop as the come into the darker shadows under trees. They seem to dissapear in the almost total darkness under the trees.

Moving close to the Dancer, he bends his head towards her as he readies his bow. "Should anything happen, leave Calsir. Leave and ring out the warning." Tolur whispers softly, in time with the whispers of the breeze. "Tell the Lord, the Lady, and any who might listen." Pausing his whispers he looks to the north with a frown and a shake of his head. "Had my wife been here, she would have begun to sing forth a song to guard against fear," in that moment, as he whispers, a half smile touches upon his lips. "Tell her to write one for me when you see her."

Standing Calsir gives a nod toward Tolur. Not of the order, simply a citizen protecting the wood, she follows his orders, as he has been trained more fully then she. One last glance toward the rising dust cloud, and a few ducking motions when the bats swooped nearer, she melts back into the forest at a good clip. Searching for the promised patrol.

The bats, at length, return to the Gothshaka, regroup around his head. He stares up at the southern trees with a hideous blood-smeared sneer and bellows, "Minions of the Golden Wood, I, your loving neighbor, Gothshaka of the Mountains, have returned! I have brought a fruit basket, as promised. I will leave it right here."

He removes from a saddlebag a severed head, tossing it onto the ground.

"Pardon me, but I was unable to get an elf-head, so I've settled for a long-haired Beorning. Will that be all right?"

Tolur pales considerably as he watches the head hit the ground. Clouded eyes, and a face riddled with the effects of death seems to stare upwards into the trees. Was Gothshaka's aim true or did luck favor the beast with face up rather than a lesser impact of face down. Either way, a gasp, or possibly two, is heard within the trees.

A brief glance over his shoulder, gives the Guard some small assurance that the warning would was going out with the Scholars retreat. Frowning, he returns to watch, with his eyes wavering more than they should towards the grusome sight of the dead man's head.

The only movement from under the trees, is when an occasional wolf breaks out and scurries across the clearing to dissapear into the darkness under another tree.

From atop Raugha, Gothshaka rears back his head to bellow in Orcish to his fellows. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>

As the shout from below causes a quiver of distaste to sweep through the Guard, he continues to watch with narrowed eyes. Frowning, he grips his bow tightly, as the sights and sounds seem almost to overwhelm Tolur's senses.

A laugh and a whistle comes from under one of the trees and the orc archers ride intot he open on their small wolves. Draugh rides up beside Gothshaka, "I would have thought all of Old Drolyag's brew was gone years ago."

From atop Raugha, Gothshaka says, "Would'a'been, old friend, but I have the last few dozen barrels sealed away. Hid 'em not long after I killed old Obdiltokh, and no one, not even that IDIOT Khannon, could find them."

A bird call sounds in the trees, drawing Tolur's attention. Rising up, the Guard moves swiftly and silently through the treetops to gain a different view over the movements along the borders. Moments after he moves, a shadow moves through the trees, and while not seen, a watchful eye remains over the northern border.